Self-Censure

That will not be the final title and this will be deleted. I’m trying to get myself going.

I’ll write a line that I don’t think is too good. I debate its artistic merit and chastise myself for thinking that. I push through nonsense–perceived and actual all to get to that scene I want to get to. Writing will get easier once I reach…

Pause.

I try out this sentence then scratch it out.

What am I doing exactly?

Frustrated contemplation
Enact & Redact
Instate and Debate

What am I doing? This suddenly became a poem.

I can smell the stink of ideas festering in my brain. They grow more rancid and the page acts as its mirror.

I further desecrate its unmarked grave and whip the husk of the dead thing until it falls apart at my feet.

I should delete that too. Don’t I always wax poetic about dead things when I’m bereft of ideas.

I should try something fresh–both literally and figuratively.

Delete all of it.

No, not delete.

Make sure it never see the light of day.

My own dirty little secret tucked between pages.

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