Love isn’t amusing. It’s funny how one could think that. Amusing. A muse. Amused. But who’s really laughing now? These games are played. Because every artist needs a muse they say. A source of inspiration. A play-along kind of fantasy. But hearts can shatter. This love that appears so strong is fragile. Is it really love or do you find me amusing?
How does this muse thing work? I was only here for your entertainment. How is that love? Especially if you have another. Like dangling above in a glass case. You walk around the outside prodding and poking at me. Taking notes, oh, I see. While I’m suspended in air, hanging by a thread. A part of me enjoys the adrenaline rush to my head. But this thread cannot take the weight of prowess that be. Nor the weight of reality that crashes down on me. Because you’re just an artist of a different breed. A true professor indeed. And I’m just a specimen, part of your artistic research, I see. So just like my world, this glass case comes crashing down. Class is no longer in session and you’re nowhere to be found. You told me it was love hoping I’d stay around, like a notepad in your pocket so you can jot notes down. So no, I won’t accept the proposal of your muse-to-be. No one is laughing now, this isn’t amusing to me.