The Write Stuff

For many many years I considered myself a writer. If, by many years, you can count starting from the tender of age of 10 when I won my first poetry contest. I’ve been published since then in a few poetry books (all lame and completely insulting to poets everywhere), in a national newspaper (Journal American) and in my private journals. Shortly after highschool I banished my poetry to a dark corner of my memory and acted as though I was the next great novelist to hit bookstore shelves. A half dozen unfinished novels later, I’ve resigned myself to the ranks of pretend writers and I fake my literary know-how and a large vocabulary. So what the hell is this feeling?

I haven’t had this happen in a while. This feeling that words are clanging around in my head and they have to escape or an explosion with dire consequences will occur. So against my better judgment, let me introduce to you the words that having their way with my brain.

***

I like my words
aesthetically pleasing,
marching along
checked by a period,
held back with a comma.

Not

scattered

all
over the
page

running amuck with a lack of support no
logic no rules no rhyme and no reason

***

Ah yes, now I remember why I forgot the poetry.

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