Becoming The Muse

Of all the words you can write,
rewrite,
cross out
and start again.
Perhaps the most important is simply an X on a ballot paper.

And sometimes even that has no more value than
a crumpled up paper of yesterday’s dreams.

Last night under the moon and stars what was poetry,
when we still had tomorrow,
today in the harsh light of reality,
is wishful thinking
and discarded dreams.

Tell me again,
I forget which one is mightier,
a pen;
a gun,
and a bullet
rock, paper scissors.