She lifts a tired, bordering on dire eye, seems they’ve been thinking the ten of them – over-enthused Parker pens at the concentrated ready, willing to make her next great move for her and all of this in the sudden shift of an ink shot

To succeed or yet another sloshed blot courageously adding itself to these seriously upside-down travails in a rather steadily aligned instance

Rejection by ten does tend to taking to kill any known backbone going
Times are trying to tear her undeniably down, and all that she can do to simply save herself is to imagine the final heady conclusion to glorify the utter confusion like any marveled-at-for-many-wrong-reasons egotistical writer shall and can push themselves to somehow manage

However bedraggled it may well continue to be for her, she realises just how alarmingly average she has wholly become, but has to matter-of-fact marvel herself at the gargantuan leap from embarrassingly inept – these ugly poems of hers gracing beautiful people’s walls that take to sharing their morning stares, they live a fast life unlike she

And it is this which will kill her the most in the honest-to-horned world of ours
Her very own published piss-poor masterpieces

Still there, forever staring, begging, to find their way to that holy grail page

Soon as the silent grapevine takes whispered hold, bear-grips ’till she’s all the literary rage

Again, she has to bother to ask, why the f… did this choose her, because it sure as sugar ain’t the other way round – like we say, upside-down