(a) And in a mad dash of literary achievement, I have tripped and fell down the stairs of plot, I have been strangled by a rope made of dialogue and I have been shot in the leg (and have since died of blood loss) by character development.
I have written a happy five pages.
Fighting the injustices of bad writing since 1995.
Sylvia Plath?
So My Pen Bled Love Songs
My head sang the oldest tune it knew,
The kind that went "lonely, lonely, lonely",
But never sent to rest my fears
So my pen bled love songs
My feet walked the same steps like before
but they didn't dance like before
More like now when "lonely, lonely, lonely"
is met with lifeless eyes and leers
And they grew horns and tails, love.
The kind that went "lonely, lonely, lonely",
But never sent to rest my fears
So my pen bled love songs
My feet walked the same steps like before
but they didn't dance like before
More like now when "lonely, lonely, lonely"
is met with lifeless eyes and leers
And they grew horns and tails, love.
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