Twitching with potential,
Eager as a playful pup, The watched pots of artists come to a rapid boil And then pssst pop and putter into gas. The Muses whisper, They don't linger, Such weary work, to knead ideas and forms, Unpracticed artists with arms crossed detest. Dentists' work, This yanking at bone, Pulling to get underneath - sans anesthesia, For numbed work makes dull art indeed. Squirm little writer, Scream young heart, To know the pain of unrealized creation Is to grieve with the shepherd when the goats depart. Comments are closed.
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AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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