“Nothing stinks like a
pile of unpublished writing.”
Pink rejection slips reduced
to confetti in my shredder.
Yellowing pages
stacked haphazardly
in tall towers
of my dreams.
Words rush over
fields of white,
But all that I
hold dear is
shot down by
predator editors.
in short bullet-tin's,
going postal on me.
My muse zig-zags
here and there
with a target on his back,
Yet occasionally he comes
through unscathed.
Some tidbit of my
tedious tribulations
reaches the public eye.
Then it's back
to the leadaches,
My grains of thought
returned with the sharp
pains of disbelief.
Bronze trophy winner
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