I love to talk. But only about certain things here. I was asked recently why I didn’t “pour it all out” and I don’t really have a good answer. Perhaps it has something to do with transparency and a trepidation about revealing too much. We all have dark secrets. I often express them in poetry. Letting on that you write poetry can be revealing, but whether or not your words are poetic to a reader is another matter. Which is why I think poetry is such a wonderful way to express yourself. I offer no interpretations or critical analysis of my poetry; I got enough of that in college. You may or may not enjoy reading poetry, I can honestly say that I’m not very well read on the masters, although I’ve always been intrigued by their ability to evoke so much with just a few (or many) words.
Some would ridicule morose poetry. Not I. And if you, dear reader, find my poems to be a bit on the gloomy side, well, don’t fret, I’m kind of used to walkin in the dark.
Softly made a noise I could hardly hear,
wrapping her voice around me like a hug.
I tasted her skin and heard it so clear,
or was it that other thing that’s made up
of so many lies and so many tears?
Forgetting to listen with words I feel,
while she places inside terrible fears.
Her thick crusty shell reminds me of steel.
Why always open when it should be closed?
This meaningless tangle of nothingness.
I walk on water to compare this.
It’s more than my cup will ever contain,
a nightmarish soft song with no refrain.