I didn’t write what they wanted

I wrote a story, but they didn’t want a story. They wanted answers, an explanation, a fact.

I wrote an essay, but they didn’t want an essay. They wanted quotes, an event, documentation.

I wrote a love letter, but they didn’t want a love letter. They wanted platitudes, an engagement ring, party favors.

I wrote a poem, but they didn’t want a poem. They wanted paragraphs, a conversational tone, familiar voices.

I wrote a novel, but they didn’t want a novel. They wanted x followed by y, a plot, the synopsis for the back cover.

I wrote a thing, but they didn’t want a thing. They wanted copy, a review, marketable content.

I wrote words, but they didn’t want words. They wanted data, a searchable index, keywords.

I wrote my thoughts, but they didn’t want my thoughts. They wanted research, a reference, my credentials.

I wrote my feelings, but they didn’t want my feelings. They wanted science, definitions, material proof.

I wrote about death, but they didn’t want to read about death. They wanted promises, optimism, delusion.

I wrote about fear, but they didn’t want to read about fear. They wanted solutions, methods, evasion.

I wrote about America, but they didn’t want to read about America. They wanted perfection, a monolith, freedom.

I wrote about silence, but they didn’t want to read about silence. They wanted excitement, pollution, paranoia.

I wrote an ending, but they didn’t want an ending. They wanted forever, and ever, and ever.