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Giving Up
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.
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