Poem #4

I can't even begin to describe how excruciatingly uncomfortable it is to post these poems. It's probably the most horrendously vulnerable thing I've done in ages. I hate it. But I'm compelled to do it. The very discomfort of it is what's, somehow, appealing about it.

I think, for one, it helps me take myself less seriously. I mean, really, what makes these poems so bad is that I was so freaking serious about them. I was so deeply in the throes of EMOTION when they were written. And I have to look back and on that and laugh at how serious I was about emotions. I don't think anything just rolled off me back then. I FELT everything. And I was in this constant search to find the words to express my feelings. Ugh! How tiring.

The older I get, the less I care whether anyone else understands how I feel. The less I care about what I feel. I'm usually more interested in getting past whatever emotion I'm in the grips of so that I can get on with life. Because I find most emotions are just so paralyzing.

Winter Wood

My body bends
with the
age of sadness.

My limbs weep
with the
weight of sorrow.

My heart beats
with the
Urgency of Life.