Scrapped


Ideas (half-baked) which used to glow

With an inner promise of beauty

When turned around and placed

With their feet on the ground

Dissolved into the dust of the brain

Tossed into the gutter, with rain pattering

against their feeble souls, their ink washed away

And running down the drain

Scrapped and thrown to the side like wrapping paper

on Christmas Afternoon

Undercooked thoughts

Have a dreadful fate.

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Feast on Words


“If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed quickly, to trap them before they escape.”
-Ray Bradbury