Now Playing: something low and ominous, probably with a cello that knows too much.
At approximately 2:12 PM, the poem, “Christmas Feels Like You,” was last seen intact.
Witnesses report it was doing well. Not perfect, but breathing. A little wordy, perhaps. A touch indulgent in the second stanza. Title feeling a touch ornamental on its head, but stable.
Hopeful, even.
At 2:14 PM, the editor/poet (dba Drema Drudge) entered the scene.
She carried scissors.
She said things like “just a quick trim,” “let’s beta test a new title,” and “we’re only tightening the ends.”
The poem did not resist.
Oh, reader, it trusted her.
At 2:19 PM, Word Raccoon was spotted nearby.
No one knows who let her in.
Security footage shows her rifling through metaphors, stuffing half-rhymes into her cheeks, muttering something about “streamlining the narrative” while actively making it worse.
At 2:23 PM, the first cuts were made: Snip, snip to “My mind adds synapses and synopses.”
No one objected to that cut.
A line here.
A phrase there.
The title hit the floor, splitting the kitchen linoleum. Said title was quickly replaced with “No Crib for a Bed,” which WR, perched on a nearby light fixture, was no more pleased with.
An entire image was quietly escorted out the back door.
“It’s cleaner this way,” the editor said as she held the scissors aloft.
The already slim poem began to lose what little volume remained.
At 2:27 PM, things escalated.
Word Raccoon seized the scissors.
Witnesses describe the scene as “aggressive shaping.”
Chunks removed without consultation.
Syntax rearranged mid-breath.
One particularly good line about hay… gone.
“No one even knows what it said anymore,” reported a witness, visibly shaken.
At 2:31 PM, the poem attempted to speak.
It managed only fragments.
A clause.
A whisper of what used to be a metaphor.
The ghost of a rhythm.
At 2:35 PM, the poem was pronounced unpublishable.
Cause of unusability: over-editing.
Contributing factors include:
Unsupervised trimming
Editorial overconfidence
Raccoon interference
Authorities would like to remind the writing public that revision, while necessary, should be handled with care.
Step away from the scissors periodically.
Check for a pulse.
If the poem begins to look “neater” but feel emptier, you may already be too late.
Word Raccoon remains at large.
She was last seen dragging a stanza into the woods, insisting it “needed one more pass.” If seen, consider her armed and dangerous, but only to poetry.
dremadrudge.com 