Gazing at an unsent query,
Long past midnight, drained yet leery,
Here I find myself with long nights' labor,
Craft of muse emplore.
My finger hovers 'fore the key,
My belly tightens, lurches, lees,
To warn me, bid me bide a little longer,
Begging, "Edit more."
I wrest and wrangle with this doubting,
Draft, redraft, and research shouting,
"Nothing else, if you have yet to say it right?
Then say no more!"
But say no more? A chill subsides me,
Pillared strength to salt inside me,
Resistances court me, sussurus
A chorus calling, "Edit more..."
Another beg for beta readers?
Lines read aloud, revising meter?
Second-guessed to second-handed
Threadbare scraps of withered lore?
What then? These choristers find silence?
Bless my tales of love and violence?
Laying down praises like feathers?
Rose petals? Nay! "Edit more!"
I tear my hair, the roots upending,
Knuckles red and ripped, fists sending
Shards of mirror glass against the walls
And ceilings, scratching doors.
And yet, I cannot send submit,
I linger, doubting faith and wit.
So here I stand, fucking about on tumblr.
Thinking, "Edit more..."
And with my muses long since parted,
Pages, links, and lives discarded.
Writ upon the epitaph of one more sinner?
Prompt: An eldritch Anonymous asked me:
"Quoth the raven: 'Nevermore'."
Seriously, though. There is such a thing as too many drafts.
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, exposure, and cash. I really will give anything an honest try.