Writing problems, poem (184/365)

I wrote all this great stuff
But it went in trash
Alas, alas, alas
The critic up here
Echoes strictly
About the past
Alas, alas, alas,
My brain
Charges cheaper rent
For ideas that
Reek of doubt
Slowly evicting
The real artist out
Alas, alas, alas
– I will no longer
Appeal to the masses
At some point
Firsts draft become butterflies
It looks like death but not
Because the stuff
In the trash
Wasn’t that bad
Actually a few more passes
And might be fantastic


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s