Scriptwriter in Marble (Poem)

Photo by Mark Neal from Pexels

Wrote a script. Short one. For a play.
It was fun. Delved into my own fantasy world.
Time flew like an arrow. Polishing work was joyously endless.
I’d be still editing. If there were no due date to meet.

Submitted the script. To a contest. For a theater.
My first try. Story I created. Now it’s out there. With my name on.
It will be read. At least by one person. The first audience.
One out of fifty chances, the story will be read. For the real audience.

Came out of my shell. Now my inner world is revealed.
Crazily-vivid. Oddly-surreal. Filled with philosophy, philosophy, philosophy.
All the greats are living there. Buddha. Lao Tzu. Nietzsche. Kafka. Akutagawa. Kurosawa.
Their inspiration x my creativity = Authenticity

Took the first step. Of the long, awaited journey.
To set the scriptwriter free. Like Michelangelo did for the angel. Chiseling the marble, a chip at a time.
I’ll keep carving. Until a beautiful sculpture emerges.
Authenticity x writing-regimen = Masterpiece