The empty stage is before me.
The words are threatening to come free.
But they are trapped,
Left unable to adapt.
The uncertainty and fear,
Cause the words to smear.
The life of a playwright,
For me is not bright.
There are too many words,
With too few happy birds.
It all causes the words to spin and spin,
And to disappear like an unborn twin.
It all stops.
There are only silly little props,
And unbroken dreams,
With me to sow the seams.
Maybe the pages will never form a play,
But does that leave me to wonder astray?
The stage will always await,
Even if to be a playwright is not my fate.