11/08/2007 08:47 pm ET | Updated May 25, 2011

Love Sonnet from Building 103

O Writers! As your art has turned, bradless, to signs,
So our sealed windows have gone noisy with honks.
We cower, heartsick, above your writhing lines
As our assistants pitch us game shows and their writing services on Monk.

O Writers! To beep ourselves, e'en to wave, we ache;
And to whisper you the usual sweet nothings of notes.
When you write "Honk for Writers" - can't we raise the stakes?
Make the journey more relatable? Text in our votes?

And so we face off, split by our business and bosses.
We are the children of Montague and Capulet, of the Hatfields and McCoys.
Like the whiney lovers on Skin, we are star-cross'd - as losses
Of projected e-revenue fuel our silence and noise.

The blade of commerce cleaves art and heart in twain.
O to be unsuspended. O to leap through this pane.

Read more about the strike on the Huffington Post's writers' strike page.