My once promising draft
is now hacked up and gashed
from head-to-toe, bleeding
red ink from paper-cut wounds
and I’m ruminating in a room with no windows,
pale complexion, opened veins,
traced with White-Out
skin wrinkled and brittle
like the wadded up hopes brimming
inside my garbage can.
I’ll keep shredding rain forests
in search of a decent story.
I’m no masterpiece, but I’ll live-–
to fuck up another promising draft.
