Heart and Head

Sometimes you write from the heart and it hurts hellishly. You poke at your poem with your pen, scraping it around through the pages of your note book. It is not so much the words you play with but feelings, the abstracts that you try to alchemise into tangible signifiers. The emotions, the terrible passions, and the desires that your subconscious is so desperately trying to hang onto, you pick at them and prise them out. And as you do it, it is like a fix, a must, a thing to do. To see it done, you sit into the small hours. When the world has gone to bed you still sit with the ache, scooping at your unconscious, digging into old wounds, inventing new ones. So it ends up as something like mental investigation, sometimes like psyche-cleaning, wading through the flotsam of what you think is you. You get so emotionally involved that you don’t see the words for what you think or have meant the words to suggest. Sometimes you end up with cool sentiment and, quite often it is at the expense of your ‘poetry’. But you don’t see how terrible it is because it has cost you so much. You upload it. Time passes. You re-read your poem some time later, somewhat removed from the original impetus of the thing. And there, you break down in a tear-soaked frenzy, screaming at your boss who walks into the office just as you’re trashing your computer, screaming "OH GOD! I SUCK AND THE WHOLE WORLD KNOWS IT! OH GOD PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY!" And the moral of this is, if I could have my time at abc all over again, I wouldn’t be so hasty in uploading half the stuff I uploaded. Cuz I aint no judge of my own wordstuff. So is anyone else insecure, or are you all horribly calm and confident? huh? tell me tell me tell me...