If you're curious as to the significance of this piece,
And perhaps utterly baffled as well,
Check out "Who's Lair Is It Anyway."
It'll explain everything. Honest.

.

.
I am but a poet, you say.
I do not deserve to be within the
Ranks of the story writers,
And phictionalists

Do I not please you with my prose?
Do I not make you wonder
"Why isn't this set to music?"

I am human, you see.
I, too, yearn for the
acceptance,
the admiration,
the squeeing,
the random explosions of fops,
but not the muffins.
Never the muffins.

Unless they're lemon-poppy seed, of course.

When sparklyscorpion hits me, do I not wince?
When I am adamantly offered muffins
Do I not shove them into a Christine's mouth?
When I write, do I not bleed through the
Very words I place upon Internet parchment?
When Raouls randomly drop dead
do I not cackle with malicious glee?

I may not sing as well as Crawford!Phantom
I may not look as good as Gerry!Phantom
I may not be as mental as Leroux!Erik
I may be as mercurial as Kay!Erik
Thank the Gods I'm not as color-inclined
as Pink Haze!Phantom

But I, too, wish to be accepted among
the ranks of your Eriks
for I am an Erik as well.
But realer.