In the beginning, you were
A very private matter
Between me and the blank page.
We struggled a bit.
I would take you by the shoulder
Pulling out of a line
Then sometimes forcing you
Into another. You stubbornly
Slapped my face in rebuke
Forever telling me why
Something wasn't working
But never offering alternatives.
It is always left to me to make it work-
You are the critic- always a critic.
You never have anything nice to say.
1 comment:
Ouch. A fun piece, but I have to wince in sympathetic recognition when I read it. I think you get off lucky with a slapped face, though. My first drafts hold me down and beat me up.
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