What the title says.
I work so hard to compose prose.
To make words fit although no one knows.
So I suppose that one chapter may take days or months.
I have whole drafts that I think suck.
Another brilliant work lost in the muck
My thoughts are distorted and contorted to several brittle lines.
I think obsessively about characters, plot and time.
The movements of every persona, dialogue and random signs
Foreshadowing fate of the reader’s fellows
Yet forget small details as my critic bellows.
It is so hard to escape the tapping of my backspace key
Deleting every line to redo three
The instant one word makes no sense
I change the whole plot, and sometimes alter the tense
The reader may never see the hours I work or the thoughts that consume me
So this poem is a doorway to my mind
That I hope you took the time to unwind
And accept that I, writing frantically hate this poem for its normality
And reuse of the first word in this line
My mind is broken to finish this poem
So I must leave, ta ta so long!