Every morning I wake up.
“Not another day… I can’t do this…”

I step back and look at
the writing I slave over.
“This is no good. No one will ever read my work.
This is all the talent I have.”

I stare at my wigs in need of styling
and sewing machine;
the yards of cloth and pins and thread.
“Nobody will like my costumes,
I might as well give up my dreams now.”

I glare at my schedule and at my
mostly empty wallet.
“How am I going to pay for this stuff?
I’m in debt, too.”

I look at my school tasks
and upcoming orchestra concerts.
All the clubs and all the homework.
“I can’t manage to do this, it’s pointless.
I wish it didn’t exist.”

And then suddenly in my head
there is a short ginger boy
named Hanna.
He may only be from a comic,
and he may not be real.
It might be silly for me
to think of him as my muse.
But he tells me we’ll all
float on okay.