Not happy with the ending of this one. Any suggestions? Sometimes a poem just fizzles out. we’ve all seen them: movies that try to depict a writer’s life as something worth watching “CLACK-CLACK-CLACK” in the old days of typewriters the sound of the typing machine was almost enough the camera could pan around or do a close-up of the characters being drilled into the page or queue up a shot of the writer ripping out one sheet after another pieces of paper strewn about - more panning - some cigarette smoke, ashes, and dirty butts added to the effect now, though, what is there? our machines don’t clack we don’t go to the mailbox any more holding that acceptance or rejection letter and most of us don’t even smoke we have our word processors, e-mail, and avatars on facebook or twatter it’s all very quiet stuff i think we should start a company to sell t-shirts with the word “writer” on them and market them to runners I’m not sure why.
What about replacing these lines with something like: But nicotine stains our brain cells, words we discard fog our eyes, five o'clock shadow falls on the keyboard as the computer screen endlessly replays the romance of the writer's life.
