King's Gardens

In a quiet sylvan glade, amidst beauty, charm, and grace a new poetic force emerges to dance words wanton and chaste I caught him walking alone, On a path in my garden the gentle poet does not reflect me so I scream despair and rip out his throat With blood and tears dripping my hands clenched and gory If I can't write free and creative I must take infamous glory...

Monday, June 07, 2004

I'm having no luck, of course the things I'm hoping far have such slim chances of happening that it's almost a given they won't, but still I hope and I feel unlucky because these long odds things aren't happening. Talk about creating my own misery.