Poem: Editing Blues

Editing Blues
by a weary writer’s pen

I’ve read this line a hundred times,
Each word a crime, each rhyme a climb.
A comma mocks me from the page—
Too bold? Too faint? Just fueled by rage.

I fix one thing, then three more break,
Each change I make, a fresh mistake.
The paragraph once felt so fine—
Now it reads like Frankenstein.

My cursor blinks with silent scorn,
It knows how many drafts I’ve torn.
The thesaurus groans, it’s had enough,
There’s only so much perfect stuff.

Why does “the” feel wrong today?
What’s “tighten prose” supposed to say?
My coffee’s cold, my brain is fried—
Yet still, this plot must be complied.

But deep inside, beneath the stress,
I know I’ll shape this tangled mess.
Through cuts and tweaks and syntax pain,
A story’s born—again, again.

So here I sit, a page to choose,
Still humming, low those editing blues.

Thank-you for reading.

Remember there are many paths back to God.

Follow your own path,

Brenda Marie