Out of the fight

This is the low tragedy of all my troubles: 
My barbaric poems left me in tight bubbles. 
The cruel barbarians, refusing to help. 
I'm standing alone in a horrible yelp. 

They say, "Now you see how much you really need 
Incredible ideas for which poems bleed!" 

However, as I try to leave the hot stage, 
A poor little poem jumps out of a cage: 
"If you do not take me, then nobody will! 
Please make me your poetry, give me a thrill!" 
While it is still speaking, it jumps in the light, 
The spotlight that takes me now out of the fight.