The Tragedy of a Poet & a Muse

I was never in love with a poet but he was an artist.

But I have to wonder, can a poet actually write without having any muse at all?

Once I fell in love with a poet. He writes everyday and made me his muse. To inspire him to do things he's passionate about was like a magical feeling. It made me fall in love more with him every time he writes and knowing I'm all he writes about. 

How gullible I was to fall for him and his words, not knowing the real meaning of muse. Of course, he caressed me with love in return, fulfilling my own dream of longing to be loved by him. I loved him and he loved me back but his love was for the love of wonders that I could make him write. 

That day finally came and it hit me. He shared his work to the world, gaining followers and avid readers all over. He wanted to write more while I craved for his affection. I inspired him thoroughly for his work but he never gave me the real love I was expecting and I started to question, "Was I being loved by him only for his passion?" 

He knew I could inspire him and indeed, he was in love but he loves his poetry more than he loves the one who made him write. Realizing, I'm only the muse he loves for showering him with inspiration instead of the girl he loves in his poetry. We grew apart and I left the poet I once love. And then I began to write. I am a poet now and guess that he is my muse. I write everything about him. While he wrote all things he loves about his muse, I write all things I despise about my muse. 

In the end, I understand how the portrayal of this poet and muse works. Of all things I write about him has lured a crowd of spectators who is in love with my work. And in return, I write more about him just to show my love towards those who love me for my art of writings. 

Am I not the same as him? I think I am. Being a poet is nothing but selfish when it comes to love and that is my vice.