My work stinks.
It reeks, actually, of failure intermingled with
It stenches of vain attempts to write
with the Walcotts, the Morrises, the Brathwiates,
and rots in a hole that is called
“the block.”
I wait, like the corbeaux for the line
that quivers slowly then drops on a
sandy page. I feed, like the
maggot on what is beyond
redemption, nourished,
to produce nothing
myself.
Debra Providence (20th century) Saint Vincent and the Grenadines
Source: Writing "D"
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