Poor Poetry

Is it really true? The school year is... done. Of course, it doesn't seem quite real, yet, and I'm not sure what I'll do with all my new-found time. The first thing that needs to happen, however, is a kayaking trip through the beautiful lakes and rivers of Southwest Washington. Three days is the current plan. Three days of sun and water and trees, and not another soul to be seen. What better way to begin the break? And, on an entirely separate note, a poem about poetry for your enjoyment. The hardest part of writing, by far, is not the endless succession of blank pages, nor the pain of cutting huge chunks of text, nor the ache that settles into your back when hunched over a little laptop for hours on end, but the knowledge that you will be judged by what you create. It took me a long time to get over that fear, and I still struggle with it, but I have realized that it is not about proving yourself to others. You need only write for two: yourself and God. Beyond that, it doesn't matter a whit what other people think.


Poor Poetry

If words were half as high as any star,
or half as deep, again, as any sea...
And yet, no more, nor less, than what they are,
and half of what they hope themselves to be;

a listless tremble on the lip and ear,
no reliquary left upon their death,
except the thought that one, alone, will hear,
descended to the heart upon a breath,

and if I could enclose my secret self
within those words that I so poorly speak,
then I could cover them with love and wealth,
but I am all too wavering and weak,

so I surrender them unto the swords,
to pardon or condemn as they see fit.
I have no more, nor less, to give than words,
and so I give them meekly, and submit.