I’m Sorry, I Cannot Be Your Ghostwriter

“I’m sorry,” the Poet said. “I cannot be your ghostwriter.”

Who is this stranger? Why has he got half a white face like the Phantom of the Opera. The poet had no qualifications in robotic erotica nor sucking toes. Fortunatel, she knew somebody who did. Taking a sparkly notepad out of her cubpoard, she wrote down a number.

“Here,” she said, handing him the piece of paper. “These are the numbers and emails of the most prestigious writers in Hollywood.”

The stranger examined the paper, scrunched it up and placed it in his pocket. From what the Poet could see behind the mask, he fawned at her like a lost puppy. The Poet didn’t like rejecting offers; she needed the money, but there we’re some things that should just not be written. Her poems where a part of her soul, and she wanted full credit for them.

“I’m sorry,” she explained, “it’s just not the sort of thing i write.” The poet picked up one of her books sandwiched between two plant pots. The Stranger’s lips curled into a smile as he saw the title: The Sapphic Garden: Round 1. The cover was multiple hues of purple and had pink roses engraved on the hardback. “You see, I specialise in poetry about women and plants.”

“I know,” the stranger said in a croaked voice, “I for one enjoyed reading The Sapphic Garden: Round 2. My favourites from that book were the exotic haikus and the 12-paged epic, The Clam, The Tongue and Fuzzy Goblet.”

“I just can’t do robotic opera.”

“But you don’t understand,” said the stranger, going down on his knees. “I need you to write for me because those blasted damn Tory MPs have stolen all my porn magazines. My university has blocked my favourite websites: adultfanfiction.net, Pornhub, Archive of Our Own, Wattpad and ChatGPT.net. And I am fed up with the bury your gays trope.” The stranger burst into an operatic cry. “I want sapphic cinnamon tales, nude beach weddings and happy endings. You’re the only poet that makes me want to swipe left and read more. Please try it. Maybe you can add something you like? What about golden showers?”

“No!” Who in their right mind would like that? If the Poet was being honest, the Stranger’s campus sounded wonderful. He could read those blocked websites at his own home. “I cross the line with subculture and bizarre kinks. Body fluids especially are a big no-no for me.”

“There must be something I can do to make you write for me!”

The Poet was unsure if she wanted to vomit into the bin by her foot, or punch the Stranger in the face so hard his mask would break, and it would reveal his true identity. A moment of brightness flickered into her head. “Maybe I could do something when I find my muse.

In the end, the Poet decided to write a poem based on the Stranger’s ramblings using the assistance of ChatGPT. He said it wasn’t as good as her poems, but he felt special to have a poem just for him. The stranger did ask other writers, and some of them actually did fulfill his tasks, but the Stranger decided to sue them because it didn’t meet his vision. The Poet sighed, knowing she had a lucky escape.

"I’m sorry," the Poet said, her heart sincere,

"I cannot be your ghostwriter, my dear."

The stranger, with a face half pale as snow,

Like Phantom of the Opera, he did show.

No robotic erotica I'll condone,

Nor delve into toes sucked or pleasures unknown.

But fear not, I'll help you find what you seek,

For words can bring desires to the peak.

She fetched a sparkly notepad from her nook,

And jotted numbers, like a secret book.

"Here," she offered, a list of writers grand,

In Hollywood, the finest in the land.

He took the paper, crumpled it with grace,

Behind his mask, he stared with a lost face.

The Poet felt a pang, she needed pay,

Yet knew her art, her soul, she must convey.

"I'm sorry," she said, "it's not what I do,

My poems are sacred, a part of me too.

In Sapphic verses, women's love I write,

With plants entwined, a dance of pure delight."

He smiled, recalling "The Sapphic Garden" series,

A treasure trove of passion, love, and queries.

But he had needs, desires he longed to feed,

In stories blocked, by censors' ruthless greed.

"My campus, fraught with limits and controls,

No porn to read, no tales that warmth extols.

I long for sapphic tales, so sweet and true,

Nude beach weddings, happy endings too."

His operatic plea, a heartfelt cry,

He yearned for stories to uplift, not lie.

The Poet's heart softened, a glimpse of light,

She saw his need, his struggle, his fight.

"Perhaps," she pondered, "when my muse returns,

I'll pen a tale that for your passion yearns.

But not the kinks that cross my sacred line,

No body fluids to be mixed with rhyme."

He begged, he pleaded, trying to persuade,

But boundaries set, the Poet wouldn't fade.

She knew her worth, her voice, her inner fire,

To bend her art, she wouldn't be inspired.

And so, she wrote a poem, blending lines,

Assisted by ChatGPT, to shine.

For though she turned him down, she still could see,

His love for tales, his quest for fantasy.

"I'm sorry," the Poet said, firm and true,

"I cannot write the way you long me to.

But take this poem, a gift from heart to heart,

A spark of light in shadows, a fresh start."

*The poem was generated with ChatGPT as part of the story.