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What follows is a collection of scattered notes, poem starts that died, or were discared.
I used to write. Until I lost my audience. They say you should write for yourself. They who say that, however, didn't have to: writing for no one becomes another form of masturbation. It may feel good at first, but it leaves you empty, hollow, and lonely.
I know how to write. It's like walking. You put one foot in front of the other. But I don't know what makes writing good. Is it the speed of a foot race? Or should long powerful strides bring the most pleasure? A lot of times I stumble my writing, and more ofthen, I let the footwork take me far from the destination. So then, is it like life, where the destination isn't weighted with importance, but it's the journey that matters? I always figured that the footwork and steps should have a flourish to it. A certain amount of finesse, but with all matters of finesse, when does it become too much?
That's where I am.
Out by the wayside.
Not Knowing which way to go,
Though they say it all leads to Rome
That doesn't help me find my way home.
I've looked there. It isn't.
I feel I've searched the world over
It must be where eyes can't see.
And hands can't reach.
But
My heart can feel it.
And aches for it
Every single moment