You may love me
or you may hate me.
You may choose
to keep me in your life
or to forsake me.
You may admire me
or, at the very least,
the strange finesse
with which I play
my fiddle, night and day..
or you may detest
both me
and my confusing
language game.
You may sing praises of me
or else smear
whatever dirt you wish
upon my name.

But what you cannot
ever hope to do
is bend me
to your will
again.
If I’m not welcome
as I am..
I’ll see my way out
faster
than I found it in.
And I will gladly
burn in hell
for an eternity..
if higher powers
that you worship
count it
as a sin.

What need I have
for you?
When I already have
myself.
And that, dear muses..
is the highest form
of wealth.
The One you offer
generously
to yourself.