oh critique group, where is thy sting?
You travail…grind…you coax the keyboard late into the unforgiving night.
Cull…pinpoint…tease the perfect words from your brain.
You strategize. You project. You pluck the marionette strings.
Grip the sneering knife in your sweaty palm…plunge it into your howling heart Blood
Spills through your printer onto the page.
But The Worst is tomorrow:
And that would be why I don’t write poetry.