By Damien Knight
I hold in my mind bitter fantasy
Chains scrape against my grey skin
I long to feel fair lips and soft hands
Holding onto my dead heart within
Only when my unbeating heart
Is captured in the fair maiden’s hands
Am I free to serve her love
And if she drops it I shan’t stand
In weakness I fall before the maiden
And her hand becomes my resting place
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A heathen conceivably, but not, I hope, an unenlightened one
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I am a writer who often dawdles (wastes time). So here I am, procrastinating by talking about organization, writing tips, teaching writing tips, and other random things to keep up my writing habits, when I should be writing my novel, and here you are, dawdling as well. C'mon in and join me for some dawdling (and pretending we're not).
