My Muse Made Me Do It

I thought my secret was safe in the closet In scads of pads neatly stacked on a shelf, But when my muse said it's time To post my rhymes online Was the day that I "outed" myself. I'm not what you'd call a great thinker, My profundity's barely skin deep. I'd love to be one of those Who paints pictures with prose And writes books people buy, read, and keep. But it's too hard to flesh out a plot line And keep it moving from cover to cover. First you push, shove, and fold it, And polish, and mold it, Then often toss it all out and start over. Writing verse is a less stressful pleasure, Mine's often witty and gay. Is each poem I write a rare treasure? Will I gain wealth and fame beyond measure? No, it's not, and I won't, and I know it. Some things are not done for the pay. Time will tell if I merit the label of "poet", But I'll keep scribbling my rhymes, anyway. Though my muse does her best to inspire me To keep writing and vendor my stuff, This is poetry, nobody needs it, But if now and then somebody reads it, I think that will be glory enough. Now my secret is out in the open, I can neither refute it nor rue it. So I'm confessing it out loud, Yes! I'm a poet, it's avowed, And I'm proud that my muse made me do it.