Muse or Human?

There seems to be not much of a defining difference in my relationships between girlfriend and muse. Or even just the different between muse and a human being. I’m absolutely guilty of using lovers and friends as fodder for my own short stories or stream of consciousness writings, but even then I recognize that they have feelings and that they may dislike being illuminated by certain shades of limelight.  But I have also been on the other side of the coin. I have dated musicians and artists and writers and they all look to me as some sort of inspiring being, a muse, an object that exists solely to help them create. 

I realize that the great artists had their muses, but they were only used as a muse…never was the artistic relationship merged with one that was a romantic or serious partnership.  It’s nice to hear a song written about or to wander into someone’s apartment and see an outline of you on an easel in the corner. It’s somewhat flattering to see your picture next to an artist’s work area and your curls finding their way onto the heads of the females in his work. But it’s also an wonderful feeling to dance with someone until the wee hours of the morning without trying to find a story in it, to hold someone’s hand without memorizing the lifelines for a sketch later that evening, or to look into someone’s eyes without interpreting their life story for your latest slow song.  So where is the line drawn between to inspire and to love? And who gets to create my story: you or me? I certainly don't need a ghost writer.

You can't go wrong with Dead Boys. You just can't.

Here’s something a wrote a bit ago after coming home from a show where most of the songs played were about me by my “boyfriend” on the stage:

Sometimes I feel more like a muse than a human being
Everyone looks into my eyes and finds the inspiration
the ideas that they could create
and they take them, not leaving much for me to use
the soul is dry and cracked with your moisture feeding me
A parasitic relationship that I am not sure when to call quits
You just keep gnawing at my inspirations
to write your songs, paint your paintings, write your words
What am I left with?
The words that you write about me, the melodies that came from my curls, and the paintings that came from the colors in my words
I am floundering and left with a scant amount of pure creation
Everything seems recycled
Everything seems like something you wanted
Not needed, nothing I gave to you willingly
But something you took without asking
I caught you
thinking and looking into my eyes
And wondering what piece of my being would inspire you today

xo