I have always been inclined to write poetry, but it ebbs and flows. Lately, I have been writing a lot of it, but I can’t say that I really like any of it. I feel more, and the need to write shadows me like a cloud. I have been feeling such overwhelming emotions and appetites, and the best response is to write rather than pursue those appetites.
It’s curious that these appetites have shown up the past month or so. It seemed as if there was a string of quietness in my life, in which I didn’t feel pulled to pursue any sort of immorality. I used to practice my eating disorder: to satisfy the appetites that coincide with that: the build up and release; the obsession and false sense of control. But I don’t use that now that now; or if I try, the magic is gone. Then, I don’t have anything to quell my anxieties and lusts.
It’s as if once we overcome one temptation, then another different, but equally destructive temptation comes around. And I am afraid of the temptations that are coming my way.
There is no lesser substitute to trade for these specific temptations. I run, and I feel more. The endorphins flow from my brain to my belly to my fingertips and the tip of my tongue, and I hold back saying what I am feeling. So I write these half-assed, fictional autobiographical fantasies to live vicariously and release, and yet I feel more.
I suppose that I will bite down or hide away, for surely nothing will reign me in but time.
Put your poems aside when you are done writing, and come back to them in a little while. It is amazing what fresh eyes do for a second look.
Comment by uninvoked — October 22, 2009 @ 2:00 am