Poem – The Writer

I write my final ode and word

My pen sits on my desk

Sitting back into my chair, I nod,

“tis done, this task, my ‘script.”

 

Without a doubt I search the net

until I find the one

The agent who I do believe

will love my work like me.

 

I prep the file and google search

Until my eyes grow dim. Once I am sure

I’ve done my best

“That’s it” and I click send

 

Now I sit and wait and write.

Soon I have a “yes,

please send on this manuscript”

I squeal and click resend”

 

Now the waiting game it starts, he’ll love this book I’m sure

Like none before, he’ll love Kallan.

But silence fills my heart.

 

I wring my hands. I watch the clock

then curse and slam my desk

“Its only been a single hour!

He’ll need more time than that.”

 

The next few days, they pass with sweat

(I’ll need more antiperspirant)

“I turn my crazed thoughts out instead

to fans, the web, and Twitter!

 

I’ll make a hoot, I’ll draw them near!

They’ll love me, that I’m sure,

For I have a wit…a twisted sense!

I excel at idle charm.

 

I make a hit and meekly message

the New York City agent

“This is my plan and my goal, you know…

Just wanted you to know.”

 

 

 

His answers swift, “That is fantastic!”

By the way,” (my heart it skips a beat)

“Dolor and Shadow is very,”

Yes? Yes?

“much under consideration”

 

I squeal and jump, I dance and twirl.

But what does that mean!?

“An exclamation point!” I cry!

That’s great news, I am sure.

 

But time it stretches on and on.

My inbox stays mercilessly calm

As days mold into weeks.

Surely it can’t take three weeks

to love my book? Where is he?

 

I stare and study and memorize

those few snippets of words

“very much under consideration”

Then why has it been so long?

 

The days droll on, my heart sinks low.

My gut twists like a snake.

The coffee cups pile up upon my desk.

I really should clean up.

 

Black eyes sunken in, peer up

My greasy hair sticks to my chair

“Just love my book,”

I croak aloud to my dell monitor.

 

And so I sit and wait and lurk

Each day my hope, it shrivels

I roll my pen and, just once more,

I pour my heart upon my paper.

About the Author: Angela

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