Prose for goodness sake get off the roundabout, you might fall. Don’t go developing a healthy sense of balance and risk now. Poetry, yeah course you can go and play near the train tracks -just don’t lick the track or anything because trains never wash their feet, good lad.

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But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?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?

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