this season's prophecy: I will be stuck in a traffic-jam in April the summer's first sweat will take away my morning freshness, hours later I will enter the lecture hall with bloodshot eyes, sunburns, my shirt soaked near the armpits, and classmates I don't even know will ask me 'how are you feeling today?'
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself
I ran out of poetry the other day, my inkwell coughing up dry clots of old blue, crumpled up pages piling up in front of me - mute foothills of blankness
I searched for words under the desk, took a walk outside hoping for imagery, my stroll a succession of rapid steps, my legs quick, cutting the streets like a pair of scissors
there weren't any metaphors and similies at the grocery store, I came back screaming epithets in free verse, hurling stanzas at the wall like cuss words
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself
The bigger the issue, the smaller you write. Remember that. You don’t write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying on the road. You pick the smallest manageable part of the big thing, and you work off the resonance. — Richard Price
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