For Those Drafts that Really Get You Down.

How is it easy, this pen scratching job?

How do I make it fun, like my heroes?

It hurts so much to fail before the mob

of writer idols I’ve set up, it does.

Looking at stars from primordial mud,

Stuck up to my neck and ears in ooze

Stinking of failure and self-pity. Flooded

in tears, knowing I’ll never reach those dudes.

No, I’ll never call myself one of them.

In the end I never can be nor will,

either I’ll die my own muck and sin,

or this poisonous dirt I’ll up and till.

         I choose to be happy and write what I like,

         so don’t beat yourselves up writer, just write!