You write something down, and as the words bleed into the pages they seem so alive. Rich and earnest little fellows dancing away, full of your blood.
You've written something noone else has! You're certain nobody else could have ever discerned to thread them together in the exact order as you. You've created life, and executed the only magic trick that's real; whittled art out of empty paper and an eighty-cent ink pen.
Then you look away.
Blink, and the words will unceremoniously drop their false sheen like the cheap prostitutes they always were. Pretense and tense. You laugh at the pun.
Clock strikes 3, 3 strikes and you're out. Out into the rain go the papers with their ho-hum drivel, their pointless pablum.
You thought they were tasteful and delicate.
If you could sweep them off of the page with your arm the frauds would probably scramble to the side and keel over, laughing at you while slouching over cheap cigarettes and conferring amongst themselves, comparing notes on when they'd thought the game was up.

Read it all again, and it is such shit.

You were shit.