Poem: The Editor’s Lament

I carved the page with fire and thread,
Each word a thought I nearly bled.
The ink was pure, the soul was raw—
A truth I stitched without a flaw.

But now the scalpel, cruel and cold,
Cuts into lines I thought were gold.
“Too much,” it says. “This part’s cliché.”
It takes my heart and shaves away.

A comma here? A phrase too long?
A rhythm wrong in writer’s song?
I shift, delete, I sigh, I moan—
This voice once fierce now feels unknown.

The perfect word, I chase, I chase,
It slips and hides, a shadowed face.
Each draft a ghost that haunts my pen,
I kill it once—it comes again.

The red ink blooms like wounds on skin,
A battle I’m too tired to win.
But still I sit, I grind, I groan—
No masterpiece was ever grown
Without the storm, without the sting,
Of tearing down what once took wing.

So here I toil in silent strife,
Not killing words—
Just giving them life.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie