i knew me for an artist(ironic how) whennauseous and heavingpregnant with sobbingpounding walls and slamming doorsstill i wrotedisgusted and tiredstill i wrotefailing to become a writerstilli wrote(ironic howthis is love)
12/18/2003
Posted on 12/18/2003Copyright © 2024 Indigo Tempesta
love it!
I love that 4th line. Whole poem is a vivid testament of the vagaries of being a writer.