There was a tale of three.
A he, a she, and a me.
He had eyes,
Projector screens,
Reflecting the films you play in your head.
She, a Hollywood queen,
Hair as gold as her heart,
A sucker for romance,
Caught by his flashbulb smile.
Me, the screenwriter,
Knowing the business enough
To recognize the mechanics
Behind the greatest actor
In the world.
Award winning half truths
That I could swear were written by me
Find their other halves
Written in starlight
Shooting from the mouth of he,
The lifetime achievement of
She
Limited to their happily ever after.
Me, playing back over footage
Replaying the scene unfolding between them,
Trying to hear a romantic score,
But rather being bored
By the actor's lazy gestures,
Me, being deafened by the silence
Of this pantomime.
She, while skilled at book work,
Had simply been miscast
By he, who had not yet planned his end scene.
There is a temptation within Me,
To write myself into her part,
But I know,
This show is not about me.
She was not the wrong actress,
Just simply playing a part
Diverting from action.
She froze the plot,
So they existed as pictures,
Perfect in pixels,
Worth a thousand words,
Only no one would ever speak them,
Potential untapped.
I gaze at the screen,
Drifting to sleep in boredom
Being woken at any sign
of the screen going
Dark,
Only to have their starlight,
Lull me back
Into the writer's dream.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
There was a tale of three.
A he, a she, and a me.
He had eyes,
Projector screens,
Reflecting the films you play in your head.
She, a Hollywood queen,
Hair as gold as her heart,
A sucker for romance,
Caught by his flashbulb smile.
Me, the screenwriter,
Knowing the business enough
To recognize the mechanics
Behind the greatest actor
In the world.
Award winning half truths
That I could swear were written by me
Find their other halves
Written in starlight
Shooting from the mouth of he,
The lifetime achievement of
She
Limited to their happily ever after.
Me, playing back over footage
Replaying the scene unfolding between them,
Trying to hear a romantic score,
But rather being bored
By the actor's lazy gestures,
Me, being deafened by the silence
Of this pantomime.
She, while skilled at book work,
Had simply been miscast
By he, who had not yet planned his end scene.
There is a temptation within Me,
To write myself into her part,
But I know,
This show is not about me.
She was not the wrong actress,
Just simply playing a part
Diverting from action.
She froze the plot,
So they existed as pictures,
Perfect in pixels,
Worth a thousand words,
Only no one would ever speak them,
Potential untapped.
I gaze at the screen,
Drifting to sleep in boredom
Being woken at any sign
of the screen going
Dark,
Only to have their starlight,
Lull me back
Into the writer's dream.
