My life is a narrated story
written by unseen hand,
the beginning and ending of which
I wish I could understand.
My character seems half-finished;
dry, cliche, uninspired.
While the others are all so furnished
with detail, wit, and style.
The plot I must also mention,
for it has neither twist nor climax.
But paragraphs dead by extension
giving answers to questions unasked.
Am I this story’s protagonist,
or antagonistic villain.
I must have read and missed
a written clarification.
Added too are errors
scattered as seed to crows.
Being published without editors
to help the seed-words grow.
The readers are certainly bored—
they’ll stop at epigraph—
they’ll take a trip to bookstores
to get their money back.
It’s gobbled up by critics
who’ve nothing nice to say,
about what’s been deemed a flick
in a prosaic artistic age.
Who’s the writer anyway?
I ask, after climbing in bed.
If I’m the one who’s living,
who’s running what’s in my head?
Too late I begin to realize
that my novel has lost novelty
because the hand that’s writing
has always been attached to me.
Maybe I’ll try tomorrow,
perhaps I need some rest.
Or maybe I’ll simply borrow
from a novel with more success.
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