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Recently, yours truly posted a question on Quora about poetry, specifically the fear of letting others read your poetry.   It is no secret, I have only posted one of my poems, EVER.   That was a special occasion, or so I saw it at that time.  Turns out the feelings within were not special, they would become the new status quo.   For that which may have gone unseen then, most certainly, was not lost on the Quora crowd.


The response to my gut-wrenching poem was quite remarkable.  To paraphrase the best of the bunch:

It was too nice, too perfectly aligned with all those lines with the same number of syllables (which was then a source of pride), and the work needed to be sent to the mean streets, beaten in the gutter and bloodied up– for then, and only then, would my poetry show signs of promise.

Thank you, Quora crew for such honest and sound advice.

In full disclosure, the spirit of their message did not offend nor was it lost on me, not in the slightest.  With the spirit of bloody, messy, and non-perfect– the following is a few random writings stemming from my internal frustration, it’s not poetry, it may not be technically sound nor even good, but it is honest.

Maliced coldness
Distant melancholy
Fuck you said 
To oneself repeated, over and again
through the voice of another
Who cares?

Nah
Seriously, who cares?
The answer = nobody
Don't confuse reality with desire
Be a coherent imbecile


Next:

The monster within
Goes away with Love 
or so "they" say
Love is said to take the pain
far far far away 
or... so "they" say

Bullshit I said
The pain is everlasting
until you're dead

I can write those words a million times
A million times written to eventually get it "perfect"
As in the poem, lines of prose that flawlessly rhymes

The strife of perfection will assuredly be met
With a dissenting voice-- it's poetry to forget

No win;
Time and again
Perfection = fool's errand
The mortals sin
Or so "they" say, 
Before, just like you, 
They go away

Yet, The MONster never dies
as the beast remains well-fed
by a lifetime of misery and lies

The greatest truth ever said
was never heard because the truth is dead

The lying succubus devours the soul, bit by bit,
until swallowed whole
Then-- I lose; You win.
Right?

Of course not, that'd be too easy
and reality must always be a mess 
a mess that's far far beyond queasy 

Sure, you took all of me
At least the good chunks
but fragments and shards remain
allowing the MONSTer to feed--
on an endless neverending pain. 

Thank you for truth told through bullshit and lies;
For as now, you are a reason the MONSTER never dies.

 

Darrell Roberts :Writing is my passion, whether you agree, disagree, love, or hate the expression of my passion is not important. What is important, is that those that read my words are never bored by doing so.