leaning back on the door
she opens the can of pop—fizz,
and softly sighs.
She sips the carbonation of life
and returns to her desk to write.
She needs something original,
something new,
something not cliché
or tired,
something that will inspire
a new generation of writers.
She needs to be the next Anne
Sexton
without the suicidal tendencies.
She doesn’t throw out or delete her bad
works, she lights them on fire.
She takes her cheap .99 cent plastic lighter
and flicks it to light
the poem that never deserved to
live.
She watches the sun-like flame consume the
paper and the life that she brought about.
She sighs and takes a sip of the carbonation
of life.
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