Maybe

9 07 2008

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.

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2 responses

9 07 2008
Gary Murning

The fact that I’m writing anything after too many years makes me happy.

*applaudes* Excellent attitude.

Great poem, too.

11 07 2008
Nola

I like it. I could never do poetry. I mean, nothing that didn’t sound like really bad Dr. Seuss.

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