[From a book under edit]
I’m hidden under the print,
clawing for my right to show on the page
and not just in the channels of your brain.
Hints and likenesses are what I have,
yet I yearn to be presented as I am.
Clear a path for me, I’ll give the depth
you’re seeking, I promise.
[From a book currently being drafted]
Ah, but at least she already exists,
life laid out for her paragraph after paragraph.
What have I got after me?
The empty whiteness under the last sentence.
Hurry up, author, her story is done.
I’m the one you want to work with,
spend time with me and we’ll see where we go.
[From the author, weary from juggling]
That’s enough, I won’t have any arguments.
You’re both important, both of you will shine.
Her story isn’t done, there’s more of her I can show
regardless of our knowledge of where she’ll go.
And as for you, I’m doing the best I can.
I’m crafting out time and space for you to grow,
to ink away the white until you’re satisfied.
So let me carry on as I am and stop moaning.
I’ve got work to do, you know.