A Scornful Affair

Bring me a poet,

I’d scoff at him.

Bring me a writer,

I’d spit at her.

Bring me a musician,

I’d yawn at him,

Bring me a painter,

I’d laugh at her.

“Why do you scorn them so?

Are they not beautiful?”

Because they are passionate fools,

Who treat beauty as tools.

Because I too am a poet,

Painter, musician, writer;

As desolate as the ancient ruins,

Though never as majestic.

Because I’ve burned like them,

Wasting our feeble and fleeting lives;

Thus we spurn each other,

This fatal affair with our Muses.

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Note:

By all means I'm no poet, musician, painter or writer. I'm just a pathetic excuse of a 'wannabe' of all these. Hah.