Plebeian

I meant to begin a new post, but instead I clicked "view blog" and upon viewing said-blog, I was struck by my inability to articulate much of anything anymore. My writing has descended into fragments and clipped phrases, necessitating the supplemental picture to say, "Look here, you're going to want to see/read this." And you're convinced because I can collage. (Sentence Fragment)

Check me out: I'm disintegrating.

Poetry is a bitter vitamin, horse-sized, the kind you have to force yourself to swallow, and the kind you feel the whole way down as it presses against your vitals and stretches out your insides.
The writing and reading of poetry stem from the desire to be (want/felt/needed/real/heard/inspiring/inspired/lied to/escaped) and inevitably result in a moment of word-dwelling followed by a self-assured pat on the back--either because you have understood what the writer has written, or because you have written something no one else will understand.

These days, I leave poetry alone.