Many writers were hurt in the making of this poem.

There’s red dirt plastered on the grass,

soon goes limp, suffocates, excepts its fate.

The ground is hard, the air is thick,

so only the few can penetrate it.

We have no shame, we bare our teeth

and hunt and prowl and bite.

And mystify the opponent

with words, before a fight.

At dusk we gather what letters we can,

rip inspiration from their guts,

pilfer adjectives and idioms,

draw language from the cuts

Returning to the den with our spoils,

we gorge on adverbs, nouns, prefixes.

Gobble every last vowel, must be fast,

the remorseful artist finishes last.