Bad writing? Possibly. Pretentious? Without a doubt. Do I care? Not a whit. The fact that I’m writing anything after too many years makes me happy.
My wants are needle-sharp,
deflating all my round comforts.
This new place is jagged
and honed by desires
that I haven’t named yet.
And instead of tiptoeing
through this maze,
I will unhinge my jaw
and swallow it whole.
I refuse to be careful—
It’s gotten me nowhere.
I will smile sweetly around
the shards in my throat
and remember:
This is what I yearned for.
The Functional Weirdo 
*applaudes* Excellent attitude.
Great poem, too.
I like it. I could never do poetry. I mean, nothing that didn’t sound like really bad Dr. Seuss.