the writing game

I stand on tip-toe at the window
trying to see in,
some are giants
some wear halo's
some write with a golden pen.

They all are writing fit to bust
paper flying, pens ablaze,
comments posted thick and fast
to each other through the haze.

There's a man, dressed in silver
holding cherries in a bowl,
and on occasion, one's presented
to a writer, with a bow.

All the other writers offer
to the cherried chosen one,
praise and kind words in abundance
on the magic she has spun.

Ah! a door, and it is open,
I gather up my nerve
and my scribbled bits of paper
and my lucky pen.

I step, head down, into the fray
with a badge that bears my name,
and like the new kid in the playground
beg to play, the writing game.