Always The Poet, Never The Muse Poem by Dyna Misery

Always The Poet, Never The Muse

Rating: 4.6


There are no need for suicidal thoughts
I'm already dead
Time and time again I've been misled
The idea that I'm alive is an illusion
and there's never a conclusion
I was born with a broken heart
I guess my life was arranged from the start
Always the poet, never the muse
By now, I begin expecting to lose

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Adi Cox 27 May 2010

I thought that 'Always The Poet, Never The Muse' was an interesting title and now that I have read this poem I have not been disappointed. I have interpreted this poem to mean that we are not in control of our destiny and that the muse is an illusion that misleads us. An excellent poem 10/10

1 1 Reply
Stan Pelfrey 12 April 2006

I really identify with this on so many levels...this is trully great.

1 1 Reply
Nicola Burkett 04 April 2006

I've been there several times and back. But although it can be sad that we are never the muse for other peoples creations. We are the muse of your own, poetry wouldn't be half as good if we didn't use our own experiences as a starting point. Sincerely Nickie x x

0 0 Reply
William Jackson 12 February 2006

Though your poem personifies depression, I like it because I can relate to it having once lived for a year on the brink of despair. Perhaps you need to get back to the point and origin of your existence in order to overcome your depression. Wordsworth said it best in Ode - Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. P.S. I do not know if Wordsworth ever realised this, but you can go back.

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