Nov 17, 2022
1 min read
The Million Word March
poetry
Those things designed to break you are all in place.
Feel them grind with a mediocrity that shows
the true stale bread flavor of every word, you write now.
It is over.
The bite and sting have left your words.
Sentences sit docile as slow subdued cattle.
Your pen just lies dumb in its inkwell.
Air gun to the…
