Muse (a poem)

Muse, if you choose to turn to me
My soul would be in debt to thee
I ask to lift your stubborn head
Truly in need of being led
My prostrate posture proves this to be

Muse, here I use the gifts supplied
I wrote your words like I'm a scribe
Now here they are for all to see
To be assessed and be critiqued
From me the messenger and you the guide

My heart set out to sole compose
Creative words nobody knows
So thus I turned my ear to thee
In hopes you would enlighten me
And so you did, at least I suppose

I gladly took my pen in hand
Though lacked the will to understand
The poem nearly penned itself
Left I to thank nobody else
But solely Muse, who granted my demand

My words were trite and void of meter
I penned about some desperate author
Who out of desperation chose
To use a Muse to aid his prose
Whose help enabled him to write further

But O! Mine hopes were torn and dashed
Mine friends and family simply laughed
"The thoughts are dull, the words are lead,
The meter's off," They scoffed and said
And thus my weary soul and heart were halfed

O Muse! I used your inspiration
Only to be humiliation
Great Betrayer! Line of Judas!
Caesar'd dare to call you Brutus!
Muse, I pray for your destruction

You scamper free from mock and shame
When you were truly thee to blame
In mine spine I feel the sores
I do believe this knife is yours
Now "criticized" becomes my awful name