You are not meant to be written.
You are not meant to survive beyond an hour, at the most,
Or however long a pause must take before life turns into death.
Act I – Focus
You are mine. To remove, to contort, to confuse, to mislead.
You are of mine, but not quite as I lead you to believe:
You are not meant to have my signature at the bottom of this page.
Do you care? Can you feel? You grow quietly, phrase by phrase.
Perhaps, you believe that you will turn into something beautiful
And force life into stillborn intent!
It's dangerous – Hope: it can lead you into meandering with purpose,
Seek continuation beyond the final punctuation mark;
Expect to be wanted, to be loved, to be allowed to be…
Act II – The Lack Thereof
Do you know? It is more than four stanzas now,
And the mind is starting to get drawn into thinking of the sixth!
It's dangerous. When the creator loses control.
Do I care? Can I feel? Your neat characters taunt me –
They have grown because of me, in spite of me,
And now I feel I cannot let go.
This cannot be happening! It started as a sip of coffee –
Now the coffee's gone cold while my fingers grow ever feverish,
My eyes search your wanton self for my mind's next caress.
Act III – Despair
Pause. Hold back. You cannot be a masterpiece.
I cannot be the poet lured into genius.
It's laughable. When the creator loses control.
I forget why I began. I miss what I intended.
Time must not pass its way into reams of digital paper
And brand them with irons masquerading as incense.
It's pitiful. When a creator loses control.
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