The Rejected Suitor

The words are there
Yet they are silent
Refusing to talk
To me.

As if
I have hurt them
Somehow
By observing their dance
Across the page.

By infringing
Upon their private performance
Between the writer
And the blank sheet of paper.

Temperamental prima donnas
Who think they owe
The very page
Upon which they dance
So eloquently

Caring not
About the feelings
Of people
Like myself.

Sigh
Yet I keep on
Coming back
Hoping to be graced
By their presence.

Reviews

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

=D This is a great take on the way it all plays out. Writers are but puppets for their muses, the art which they serve. Nicely done.