Unwise Sharing

By the time you read this, I will have cursed myself for having written it. Or, at least, for having given it away, never to retrieve it back into its private little hell.

And you will wonder why.

Let me tell you why.

When I share unfinished poetry, especially rhythmic poetry, I tend never to return to it. I'm not sure why, but I suspect I am hoping for responses to it but rarely get them. I wonder why, but I'm afraid I know. The lack of response is the most convenient and least stressful way of saying "you are not a poet; you are not even a writer...you should have your fingers seized and incapacitated to save us all from your assault on the language." Oh, and by the way, piss off in advance for saying to me I'm striving for the pity appreciation.

That notwithstanding, I'm sharing something. Not a finished poem. Not even part of an unfinished poem. No, I'm sharing bits and pieces of poetry that I've started and to which I haven't yet returned. And I'm sharing only fragments. In almost every case, there is considerably more than what I'm sharing here.

Despite what it may look like, it means something to me. In fact, it might mean quite alot. Why am I sharing it? Sadness. Joy. Fear. Love. Who knows. I don't. Here goes.

Those words are like weapons,
They’re sharp and they’re straight
They convey what you're feeling,

You're guilty of hate.

But the hatred's not outward

Not again the dark sky,

It's all turned back inward,

Someone's hoping to die.

+++++++++++++++++++

Those were the days, down by the sea.
We drank shots of tequila and tried to believe.
But we knew way too much, we'd seen the power of fire
And the color of chemistry, the funeral pyre.

Try as we might to relinquish the wisdom,
Experience teaches, it's better with rum..
Criminals stole all our heavenly wallets
During our wagers, all those bad losing bets.

+++++++++++++++++++

Flashes of brilliance or flash in the pan,
Some say I can’t write, but I know I can.
I witness the words, as they fill up my brain,
Painting the pictures of love and deep pain.

+++++++++++++++++++

He's a walking contraceptive

Partly true, partly deceptive,

Screams an overblown invective

As he wonders toward the zone.

(With apologies to Kris Kristofferson)

+++++++++++++++++++

They stretch and they scar,

They stab and they burn.

Why can’t I get over it,

Why can’t I learn?