He has a siren's scream

And angel hair

And the devil himself

Sometimes takes up residence in his eyes.


He makes your heart skip a beat

When he waxes poetic about death

And the smoke from his lips

Makes you feel alive.


You love the way

That his voice breaks

And, in his desert of broken things

You'll see the mirage of your strength.


The art that he makes

Is your perfect opportunity

A chance to make his viscera

All soft around the edges.


Let him sing like Cobain.

You'll take that song

Turn it into something

That sounds like Plath.


And you'll beg for those songs

But he won't ever ask for the poems.

The most that he notices

Is that you pity him

When he cries.


He'll bring worry to your pen

And love to your heart

Leave you thanking the heavens

For bringing you a muse

That feels just as much as a girl

Even if it makes you cry

When he leaves you alone.


The curse of the muse:

To you, "can't save him"

Will never sound quite right.