I’ve been reading so much of other people’s poetry
That it feels like I am losing my own voice in this self-created cacophony of verse and high emotion.
At least that is how it feels to me.
All of this reading is stopping up my flow,
Not of words necessarily,
But of my own sense of adequacy
And self-worth (which is in short supply much of the time… but I’m getting better at self-reverence).
I wish I could read pretty or uglypretty words
And just enjoy them,
Let them run me over like a train and crush my bones and guts to moondust,
And accept the gift of inspiration and influence as it comes to me —
Because I can find a momentary muse in anyone or anything
That hits my heart in all of the right and wrong places.
I always find ways to complicate relationships,
Even the one I have with words
It can never be simple and sweet.
I have to compare, berate, self-hate, and put me down
For not being better,
For not being good (in every conceviable way).
I have to blood-eagle my own darling soul first
Before I let a single word fall from my dripping oozing veins
To splatter all over the pages,
Yours and mine.
It just has to be done.
It is written in my DNA,
A legacy of karma handed down for eternities.
But then I write
I do now… though…
(In the past, I used to not-write and cage up my words inside the prison of my ribs which kept me from my own heart as much as from the light of day).
I just fucking write now,
And whether or not what I write is mine
Or pickled and fermented in someone else,
It is all mine
In the heart of it all
And at least I set it free.
Even if it will never be
As good or as soul-gnashing
***Way to lay it on nice and thick there, lassie!***
***Again… my biology fills me with sticky tar of hellfuck every fucking month. Serenity now! Don’t worry… just smile and nod at the lunacy that becomes me.***