Lately, I feel like I’m a struggling flame, flickering and fighting to stay lit. Something keeps dumping small amounts of water on the wood so there is nothing to take hold of in order to grow into a snap, crackling fire.
I took the poetry down. For me, poetry is personal. It takes a lot for me to share it. I don’t want critiques. I don’t ask for it. I write it for me. I write what I feel. I write when the urge hits. I probably shouldn’t have posted it in the first place, but being National Poetry Month, I wanted to participate.
I love poetry. If it strikes you or makes you feel one way or the other – great! I like that. It is supposed to do that. To me, poetry is the purest form of writing there is. It is a window into a person’s soul. It is a bloodletting of sorts.
If I am aiming to get it published, then of course I would polish it till it sparkles. And if/when I do, then perhaps I would ask for opinion in the form of critique. Most – if not all – my poetry IS a first draft – written at once from a sudden outpouring of thought and feelings. Is it perfect? No. Do I expect it to be? No.
I find a beauty in that first spark – that unpolished raw spark of thought. That is what I enjoy. That is me.
Other than that, it is chilly here. Mom said she heard two to four inches of snow is a possibility up north tonight. Blech. I don’t want it hot. But I wouldn’t mind warm enough to sit out on the deck and bask in the sun. I’m thinking temperatures in the 60 degree range would be nice.
Right now I guess the chill matches my mood.