What's that saying about glue and words sticking and bouncing and being a kid?

Another rejection today in the mail. This sad little envelope with my handwriting on it, taped wonkily on the back like a SCOTCH brand extra sticky assembly line rolled right over it. The letter inside no better like sending someone a single grain of rice. Dear Poet (that’s me), blah blah no place for you blah. But I knew even before I opened the thing, yes THE THING, waving in my hand like a tissue.
That’s coo. I thought it was a good one. One of my shorty pants poems, but I thought it was pretty good. It was hard enough for me to write, if that matters.
I feel fine. A bee flies into my face and bounces off. This is the time in life where a writer (that’s me) really starts to believe in herself. I’m alone doing my work, making it better and have no one to answer to but me. We have to believe, don’t we? Otherwise we’d never buy stamps again.

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