The Hollywood Writer's Strike. (Dedicated to Samantha Chery.)

 

 

In the heart of Tinseltown, a discordant note rings,
Hollywood's scribes have downed their tools, silenced are the kings,
Scripted fantasies are frozen, on paper they remain,
In directors' heads, their visions - but their voices, they restrain.

Their words that fuel the dreams of many, stand in stark defiance,
No longer playing puppeteer in the dance of compliance,
TV screens grow silent, movie reels refuse to spin,
In the kingdom of the silver screen, a rebellion from within.

For each has found their power, in the silence and the pause,
They will no longer write on demand, without a noble cause,
No more cardboard characters, no plots absurd and thin,
In the absence of their labor, may a new era begin.

Now Netflix waits in nervousness, its catalogue growing bare,
Marvel's heroes rest awhile, mid-flight in comic air,
The ceaseless churn of mediocrity, finally at an end,
The call for true artistry, the writers did send.

From the ashes of this strike, a phoenix may just rise,
Stories told with more depth, no longer simply franchise,
The slate wiped clean, a canvas fresh, the writers hold the key,
To a future of more substance, where true storytelling's free.

So, hail this Hollywood strike, though it may seem severe,
For in its wake, we may just find, a cinematic sphere,
Where artistry is valued, and stories truly matter,
And the din of vapid content, begins to simply shatter.

For if we see no longer the incessant, thoughtless churn,
Then perhaps we'll value more the tales that truly burn,
Deep within our hearts, they'll resonate and thrive,
Heralding a new dawn, where quality will survive.