Muse, come back, inspire.
Characters have dried,
died,
withered
into nothingness
or dwindled off into history.
They no longer bounce off the page,
talking and walking and sputtering to life,
spinning a story they tell only to me.
It saddens me to see the fate,
and now I pessimistically know I'll never be great.
Whisper to me, my ladies and gents.
Remember me? The faithful craftswoman who tried to whittle a story out of you?
Now I'm stuck in a deep ditch of quicksand,
waiting for someone to ride along the road and lend a hand.
Anyone, any admirer, this is a desperate plea!
Recognize me!
Doesn't every writer start out somewhere like this?
Now I see the determination has died,
the confidence pried
away from the energetic young writer.
I have not what it takes,
I know this now.
So ladies, men, I exit the stage.
I'll take my rightful seat in the audience
and watch the rest of the act.