The fortunate few are as cursed
by fortune or ill fate; the view
hinged upon which side of the gate
one stands in the mired stain.
What tears at our souls
comes not from the outer dark,
nor from flames below;
but borne on black wings
of desires from within
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I don’t know why or how I started doing this but recently when my energy to work on the novella, novel, or story in progress wanes, I find writing verse fuels my desire to work again.
Some days it’s just a warm up exercise; other days I don’t know what I feel like writing so I noodle with a poem. It adds to the daily practice of writing, and even if all I’ve done is scratch out five lines of verse I can look at that and say: I wrote something today.
Sometimes just completing a little thing is encouragement enough.
The trees do not betray,
though the paths between them diverge,
and the way is lost.