(no subject)
The previous night, she had written at least seven poems, reviewed them critically, and then spat upon every one of them. She grasped and wrung each piece of paper so tightly in her hand that they politely succumbed to her indignation, crinkling into misshapen paper globes, worlds of inadequate words. Hands poised in air, a flick of the wrist to send each through a gloomy trajectory to their ultimate, trashcan demise. Eyes squinted into cresent moons, eyebrows furrowed, as if challenging an invisible opponent to block each shot. Of course, there were none; no last-minute objections before the marriage of paper and wicker waste basket, no teary-eyed mourner to toss a flower upon the mass grave. Her pride prevented her from retrieving every abandoned, poetic potential herself.
She imagined herself an abortionist of artistry, rejecting the fruit of her linguistic womb. "No, that feature will never do!" Each failed rhyme and awkward wording like a crooked nose, an unsightly blemish, a face that not even this mother could love.