I find it utterly disturbing that reading some of the horrific angst-ridden poetry from my late teens and early twenties feels a lot like nailing myself to the wall. It should not still be so true, right? I should not read youthful lines about fear of intimacy and still feel it so keenly. But, oh, how I do! In a very bold experiment, I am going to be posting bits and pieces of poetry I wrote years and years ago here. [insert all possible self-deprecating remarks ever here]
Once upon a time
I set out to write
the great work of my life.
Only to discover that
my life is ever beginning anew
so this work will never finish.
Welcome to my work in progress.