Bad Poetry Day (no, there’s no meter)

Panic, how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
You turn my stomach into a rock
When I’m cutting pages.
(Don’t worry, that clunk is just the sound of bad writing when it hits the worm hole to the bad writing universe behind my monitor)
You’re the ice that runs down my spine
When I play whack a chapter.
(Once yesterday, twice today!
Whack!
Whack! Whack!

At the gym!)

That squiffy feeling in my elbows?
That’s you, Panic.
All that writing that came from nowhere
And might even be halfway decent?1
That’s from you too.

But I still don’t love you.

1. If you’re not, you’re going into the same black hole you came out of. And yeah, that’s a threat and a promise. Try not to Panic about it.

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