I wrote this about a month ago when I first started to contemplate the idea of dabbling again with poetry and writing as a whole. I realized that sometimes I am so scared that whatever I write won’t be perfect that I stop after I’ve written a couple lines. Having made this discovery, I made the requirement for myself that editing will be kept at a minimum. If I come up with a line of poetry that I like, I’ll write it down…then I’ll write down a line after it. Instead of waiting for the perfect line, I will forge forth with whatever words come next. For me poetry isn’t perfection, it’s taking a risk.
I Will Write
I will start to write again
Regularly, but not well.
Hell, what do I write?
I’ve been told that meter and form
are not my forte
Which suits me just fine, for they
With their constraints and limitations,
My results are always vague imitations
Of Shakespeare, Frost, or Mary Brown.
With all I read, one would think I’d be inspired.
But birth and bugs,
Microbes and microns,
Diseases and death,
Don’t feed the soul as much as one would hope.
But that’s to be expected I suppose.
I will start to write again,
But I will write for me.
I can’t just write for anybody.
Some of my work may have valid worth.
Some of it may be shit for earthworms
To feed upon.
I’ll write for pleasure and joy.
I will write.