what am i?

Click, click, click

clack. A typewriter in the distance

and the clipping and clapping

resonates in my ears.

Diligently the poet taps and

taps and taps, seemingly

unceasing. What new and

glorious adventure has she

conjured today?

Maybe a story about her

childhood, one yet untold,

or perhaps one of the monsters

in her past or her present.

No, she’ll probably leave them secret.

But what to write, what to write

what to write?

Visions dance onstage

and exit to the left until curtain

call, but none hold the spotlight

and capture the sole audience

member’s attention.

In making an effort, she finally dons the most

sequined outfit she can find and

prances and flutters around until

she’s breathless,

then does it again.

And for what? Certainly not for money,

maybe for fame, but could there be love?

The line is ever so fine, some days she hates

and others she’s obsessed.

Still clicking and clacking, she doesn’t

want to write about love or her distant father

anymore.

She’s grown up and grown out and grown in

and it’s time she shows it.

She takes a step back, examines, sighs.

The only addition necessary is a soundtrack and

a dance routine.