Note: this is 100% fiction

Smothering my face with a sofa cushion, I scream as loud as I can. What am I trying to accomplish here? I am not a poet. Why is a non-poet trying to write poetry?

Tossing the cushion back on the sofa, I return to my typewriter, rip the page from the typewriter, crumple it into a ball, and drop it into the fireplace. What in the world am I thinking? The thought pops into my head as I watch the flame lick the crumpled ball of paper.

Oh no no no…

In one swift motion, I reach in and grab the paper before it became ashes. I flatten the paper – the edge has darkened by the flame – and reread what I’ve written over and over, liking it more and more each time.

Whatdoyousee