I write to express my emotions
to let pain out
let joy in
if I find a place to publish
I expect good and bad reviews
A good review and my ego dances
A bad review and it gets the blues
Sometimes I write with a pure open mind
Sometimes I write just so someone will comment.This is my ego writing, not my heart.
—_——-_——-_——–_——
I write.
In the half-light, at a table scarred with use.
I write because pain has edges,
softened when they press into paper.
Joy, shy, finds its way in sometimes.
A breath caught, a window cracked open.
I send my words out flimsy,
hopeful, a note under someone’s door.
You read, or you don’t.
If you smile, my chest loosens,
eases, dances,
if just for a moment.
If you frown, if the silence comes
my ego, mad child in an empty kitchen,
throws its bowl, sulks, refuses to eat.
Some mornings my words are plain
and honest,
untouched by the heavy pull of wanting.
But wanting (always, underneath)
for the nod,
for the sign,
for one voice calling back.
I know the echo is not the point.
The point is the writing.
Still, here I am:
holding both hunger and enoughness,
here in the margins
writing for the answer,
knowing the question never really leaves.
I hope I never have to rely on AI to write for me. Sometimes I’ll use a proofreader to correct spelling and punctuation but that’s it. The human element is what makes poetry real. The compassion, the anger, the love, the empathy, and even the laughter are all something that made men and women write poems in the first place.
The future is scary being we won’t know what’s real and what isn’t.