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The private eye disguise

In glasses and bushy brows,

With nose and funny mustache

Able to deceive the soused.

I am impersonating the author,

The teller of these tall tales

Of tarnish valor and unfair maidens

And life’s sordid travails.

It is hard to fake the writing

To sit here and make stuff up.

The computer stares at me blankly

Like an audience saying, “Never enough.”

I can’t take one more day,

Maybe not ever one more hour.

I’m looking for the clues,

But everything turns up sour.

The writer has disappeared,

The creator now uncreated.

And everything I try or do

Comes out jaded or simply dated.

I am the created cliche,

Left behind to hold this space.

O’ author come back to me

So my future won’t be erased.

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