Poet-On-Demand

I used to be a poet-on-demand. Their curious faces looked at none but me. When I did write, the poems turned to sand. I would imagine stories swift and grand and points of view, me, you, them, he, and she. I used to be a poet-on-demand. They badgered me with sharp and shrill commands; My time was short, the hours dark and wee. When I did write, the poems turned to sand. With no more life, my verse became so bland that no one knew I'd been a prodigy. I used to be a poet-on-demand. My face was slapped by angry, burning hands; like firemen, they ordered me to flee. When I did write, the poems turned to sand. I'm now a waiter at Salut on Grand. I now cost money - I'm no longer free. I used to be a poet-on-demand. When I did write, the poems turned to sand.