Poets are not poets (on the seventh day they rest)

Poets are not poets
nor voices of reason
but memories of the past
and trumpeters for the future

Slamming hands in car doors
just write the reasons why
there are no hot coals
poets haven't roasted feet upon
and all the knives are dull
cutting open their minds

Athena once split Zeus's head asunder
now that must have hurt like hell
yet poet's seem jealous of the pain
as they tear insides out

I know, let's have some fun
practicing sacrificial rituals
just to write a compelling poem
with the god-like powers
giving life to words

On the seventh day
they rest with bloodied hands