My writing is half-formed, which makes excellent poetry but terrible sentiment.
Take the following:
“I want more words, stitched bright white, the interrupted thought on blue midnight.”
Elegance where I want unbalanced devotion.
I’ve taken to reading books of poetry, sitting in my large leather chair, the tiny lamp on the bookcase next to me snapped on by pressing in on a small black line. I take them in one or two at a time, re-reading them until I think I can be honest enough about them to say they’ve been read. I should be comforted by their trust, settled by their placement.
Instead, I am provoked.
I find myself answering them in missives. Scratched, typed, or scrawled, I write promissory notes of future intent.
Fuck foreshadowing, fuck Babe Ruth and his called shots, fuck the lies I tell myself about tomorrow’s hungers.
I want it now.
Well, I don’t know why, but this made me laugh. I needed that.
Poetry is a grand thing, but it does tend to leave one with no place to hide.