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
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.