Friday Writing Pinball; 2004

I started when it was dark, and I told the truth,

when I should have described it instead, I hear

every teacher I ever had, writing classes taught

me self-loathing habits, a full focus on how to

be yourself, while others misinterpret, and all

 

I am left with is a stack of papers, connected at

the corners by mismatched staples, or would it

be better to tell you how they smelled; I could,

but you’ve smelled paper, not imagine out loud.

 

If practice perfects you, then the more exposition

ensures a kill, Bambi, heart writing, explodes

in the reader’s mind, stimulating their neurons,

or something else, I didn’t research it, so now

 

I look like a hack; so here’s an allusion: chop

me down to size, so here’s a reason to forgive:

cliched love, notice I didn’t accent it? I’m not

sure any of them are proud, even if they were

 

they were all writers too, so telling another

writer you like them and their work, without

having some bullshit to sell of your own, puts

you in a bad situation, teachers suffer from

 

this the most; agenda-heavy assholes, ready to

criticize when they know less than you, unless

they don’t, then you are the asshole, and really,

aren’t we all assholes? No ending… this is art.

 

*Please note: This is not from 2004, and I didn’t proofread it.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on February 7, 2017.

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