at each fresh evil I break a little,
recovering more quickly every time;
reassuring with an easy joke, a smile,
thinking to escape the agony,
but it cuts deep into me
and with sharp fangs it rips out my creativity,
visciously spitting it out
to land like embryonic seed on arid ground,
never to stretch to maturity.
sometimes I want to scream
“this is not my life. It is not me.
these insipid lines and phrases
are less than my ability.”
©Jane Paterson Basil