Mr.Playwright

Dulcet electrical-guitars playing as I draw graffiti on the sky-line. There’s more to me than converse shoes and These lonely brown eyes. This force within me is, Shaking- Aching. I am waiting to be written. I’ll be your masterpiece, and you can be my Playwright- Dress me up in dramatic irony. You can knock me out from setting to setting- Be the cause for my complications- And just when I think I’ve had enough, You can hose me down with a happy-ending. I’ll run-on from scene to scene, And for a protagonist, (I can sometimes be pretty obscene.) Cut me off with periods and full stops. Re-arrange the fragments of my being. Feed me catchy infinitive phrases- “I don’t know What it’s like TO FEEL Anymore.” You know how cheesy words cut me to the core. You can shoot me with idioms. After all, you are All bark and no bite. I’ll be your break through; I’ll make you famous- Mr. Playwright. Hold me hostage in your possessive forms. I’ll be Yours, And maybe you could be Mine. Do not under-estimate my logical Parallel structure though- If you want me "to stay," Then you’ve got "to give me a reason." Mr. Playwright, I am not a big fan of Treason, Indirect metaphors, And open-endings.