The writer craves an audience
Like all the other performers
Putting on a show
Demonstrating words of experienced eyes
Laden with the colors
Of existence
Dimming as he falls into slumber
If he is not conscious of
Loneliness, pleasure will cease to manifest
He will not find the prize fighter of inspiration
Isolated like all the other performers
Ending a show
The writer needs an audience to applaud
Even if he’s the only one