I don't want to be a muse any more.
I have too much paint in my soul for your tributes,
too much blood in my veins
for the task of inspiring their pulse.

This is my world to capture, in violent reds
and dark, soft night.

And you say I am a statue,
and
they say I am Venus
radiant, rising
but when I die

I will have been Botticelli.