they don’t seem too fond of me these days
I’ve had enough of their cold glares
their refusal, their indifference
they ignore me when I call out to them
they turn their collective backs and
say, in an unbearably disdainful voice,
“Go play with your ukulele;
it’s not like you need us.”
But I do. Don’t turn from me now.
I can’t seem to put things together,
for I seemed to have misplaced my vocabulary.
My muse has abandoned me. Sob.
How am I supposed to express myself–sniffle.–
with you gone?
So come back to me. Wail.
Please come back to me. Sniffle.
Oh, please come back to me. Rolling on the floor.
Hey, that hurt. What?
What do you mean I’m being melodramatic?
I’m having WB, goddammit.
I’m entitled to a tantrum.
What’s WB? Don’t–don’t you know what WB is?
You don’t? Oh, it’s writer’s block.
You’re mean. Sob. Sniffle sniffle. Sniffle.