Your lines, they got no steam.
They reside in low places.
Waiting for credit they didn’t earn.
There’s no life in them.
They can’t compete.
Floating flaccid and flavorless.
Chewed out gum,
stuck to the bottom of a gnarly Chuck Taylor smelling of burnt tungsten and dried oregano.
Pretension worries but doesn’t sweat.
Poems need sweat.
It’s as if you lived and learned nothing.
A litany of envy, thick.
A paucity of hope that you could do well if given a chance.
But the thing is, though,
you were given many chances.
You chose to say you were something, rather than work at being it.
23 years old girl travelling solo on a motorcycle.
Not just live and let live, but live and help live
Monthly Festival : Turn your book into a movie and get it seen by 1000s of people. Or garner FULL FEEDBACK from publishers on your novel and help your next draft. Or get a transcript video of your novel performed by professional actors.
Twisted tales of times true