Is that my....
Of sad eyes peering out behind happy ones,
Beneath the old untouched stones of forged roadways,
Beneath the granular dried mud.
Is that who I am?
It’s a baffled relationship of stars and poet's words,
Of lovers tongues and silence,
Of a rapping sound repeating out of sync.
Is that my heart?
The dirt beneath my nails is my signature.
I close my eyes and taste the wind.
Is this the depth of my experience?
What do you do with your lines of bad poetry?
I rewrite the ones that had a glimmer of a thought, throw others away. I post some thinking they are not bad only to discover that they really are. Then years later when they pop up in Facebook memories I regret it then try to rewrite it again.
Sometimes a line or two pops out, like a sculptor carving marble, I then have to chip away at the poem to find the art within. hmm there's a bad line to keep for later.) Some lines end up in snippets of paper buried in my pocket for a few days, some are in binary code deep on a hard-drive somewhere and who knows if they'll ever be seen again.
I have millions of words. Painters paint, writers write. I found a line of a poem on an old bank stub under my keyboard the other day. No idea why I wrote it on the stub and it wasn't even that great of a line. It was an old stub and the date and the amount of withdrawal or deposit(likely withdrawal) was faded beyond readability.
"I saw a sparrow eating bugs off a dead cat and thought about resilience."
We should even save the bad lines.
The importance of writing bad poetry is that maybe good poetry will eventually come, that if ideas are engraved, even if poorly, someone, somewhere, sometime can witness an unexpected moment of you. The importance of bad poetry is so much more significant than posting a meme or wasting a perfectly good meet up with a friend bitching about the price of gas. In other words, even bad poetry, in the grander scheme of things, has priceless meaning.
So I write (though these gas prices!!!!)
A bitter woman prays wearing a flowered 70s dress in a house four- blocks away as she listens to sentimental music while smoking long filtered menthol cigarettes and hating liberal commie faggots.
My old teacher's words I finally heard for the first time today, 30 years later, because it was time finally.
I cut this grass out of desperation to fit in.
There is nothing more poetic than the world inside a droplet of water.
What bad poetry do you keep around?
Become a sponsor for as little as $25
For display ad rates please email us at 8and3222gmail.com