Killing My Ideas

My editor, the pernicious devil. He
swims the baby pool with a knife, while

I stay away. I dive into the deepest
end of the big pool. He watches

with no concern. He says, “Carl,
sometime soon, you must bring

your pen or type little simple
things into shiny glass screens.”

I love being lost in the waters,
and though my swimming is rough,

freedom runs batshit crazy through
my veins as I hold my breath, knowing

I’ll survive, feeling strings of love and
words and pictures bubbling in my body, but

his cackles bring me to the surface, “Poem-
A-Day, I’ll cut you deep and wide, and

the people will hate your shit.”

.

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