Poetry is how I reveal myself in the most vulnerable and true way. It’s a form of meditation and condensation of my thoughts. The words I generate I tend to regard as mostly meaningless to others. A lifelong stuggle with self-esteem issues has left me hesitant to ask others to read my poetry. I wouldn’t want to be a burden. After all, who likes poetry?
I have considered starting yet another blog and moving on, but I have written in this blog, however sloppily, since I was a 19-year-old confused semi-radfem stoner night-time deli diva of the scandalous variety, and it is so comforting to me to have that continuity. When I look back over this blog, as I often do (for I mostly intend for it to be a personal collection for archival purposes) I start to wonder: are these real poems? Are the word combos I rack up worth anything other than imaginary Juliet points? Do I sound as insane in real life as I do in my poems? These are rhetorical questions. I ask them into the blogosphere, to no one in particular, to whatever phantom nobodies brought here by a random click.