How to Lose Your Inspiration

What shall I write about today, the writer asked his Muse,
Whatever you like his Muse replied, the subject’s up to you,
You’ve been taking me for granted, so today I shall refuse,
To give you any help at all, now let’s see how you do.

That’s so untrue the writer said, it really is absurd,
For when you bring your gifts to me, I hang on every word.
Perhaps you do the Muse explained, but there’s a certain lack,
Though I gave all those jewels to you, you gave me nothing back.

The writer could not understand the reason for this ire,
You had my thanks and gratitude, what more could you desire?
Gratitude, the Muse replied, what use is that to me,
I need inspiring just like you, but plainly you can’t see.

The golden words I cast for you to place upon the page,
Where do you think they come from, do I have my own Sage?
No you fool, there’s only me, quite driven to frustration,
Because like you, I need it too, I need inspiration.

You think if you turn up and write, then I’ll do all the rest,
But I’m supposed to be your muse, not your unwilling guest,
Why did you keep me locked in here, this dreary little room,
Where there’s no stars, no trees, no sun, no oceans, and no moon?

You took these things away from me and gave nothing in return,
You thought that they were yours alone, but now it’s time to learn,
Without those things to nourish me, the inspiration dies,
The well from which I once fed you, has finally run dry.

If you had nurtured me perhaps, it was yours to discover,
That I could have been much more to you, I could have been your lover,
But now the time for that has passed, there’s nothing to be done,
And before he realised his loss, the writer’s Muse was gone.