Friendzoned by the Muse

How easily the words come for others,
How easy and slutty the Muse
drapes herself over their pages and minds
with artful seduction echoing her sparkling garments
while some can simply impress her with force;
whipping her into giving up her secrets
raping and fucking as she spits and hisses
thrusting, plunging deep to make her cry inspiration.
Yet others are welcomed and saluted
as they greet her with alcoholic bravado
or half notice her through an addicted stupor
letting her guide their chemical addled minds
pinching their pockets of awkwardness
to replace with simple gems of truth.
And these are just the fates of men,
while women do all as above and even more.
To them the Muse seems to be on call,
an artistic and deep girl friend
to help a fellow woman in a 'man's world'
or their reliable go-to fuck to use and abuse
yet still she is ever faithful to them
or even that whoreful bitch
who they vow to never acknowledge
but always accept her whispers and guidance.

All the while I envision the Muse
as a slender raven haired perfection
with highlights of intense fire,
a divine goddess if ever there was one
yet she scorns me to play whore, flirt and friend
to others who do not always see her.
To these she proffers gifts
of glory, admiration , respect and response
simply for choosing the right mix of symbols.
While I fight through oblivion
as despair and blankness claw at my essence,
only to receive cast off ideas and pages
as I lie broken at her feet, soul screaming for comfort.
Then she simply says to others we two are only friends
excusing herself from my mind
even as she winks over the shoulder in my direction
but not at me, rather a more fortunate write or poet.

For I am but her friend,
but to me she is paramour, perfection, and paradise incarnate.