I can let poems out of the cage as unfinished monstrosities,
as lumbering creatures sort of sewn together, but not quite –
all the filling sort of hanging out like a burst silicone implant (I watched a lot of surgery programmes today).
But not prose, it sort of gets treated like the over-guarded, over-disciplined older child.
It feels too real and I feel like it has to be better, has to be more of a photographic representation of my feelings… I just can’t be as playful or carefree.
And I find that annoying.
Because my feelings are in flux all the time anyway, “so what does it matter?” I ask.
But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?
I don’t know, I just can’t let go of it the same.
But I’m sure I will, I just need more practice and more time, a few months ago I would have felt sick posting a poem on here and now I’ve posted over 200.
I feel like I’m being very lax with them darling, don’t you think?