Let's workshop this poem about a young woman, misled by her naivety as to the true source of her artistic energy, attributing her creative spark and potential to a man who is essentially a freeloader
Freeloader
She gave him muse credit,
placing her potency in his hands—
hands she submitted to
in sacrifice for keeping
jacked into artistic voltage: too new
she was to herself to know
his entrance merely coincided
with a manic season
that would have unfurled anyway.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)