The Escapees

They're hiding from me again. They don't want to play.
Don't want to describe those things that I have been spending my time on.
They're not interested in stanza formation or syntax or iambic pentameter.
They don't care who I think I am or what I call myself.
They refuse to cooperate.
They could give a care about my need for artistic expression...
But they don't.
I beg them, I have to tell people about the moon!
No, you don't, they respond.
But, what about the sky? I moan.
Everyone's seen it, no one cares what you see in it.
They're being deliberately cruel.
They know I have things I must express to certain people.
People I love and people I don't love and people I don't know
If I should love.
And they laugh at me.
More's the pity, they say; you're just going to have to get used to disappointment.

Apparently so.