What I really need is a pretty place to write poetry.
A pretty place to place pretty poetry.
A place that is full of empty space that
longs to be filled with my words and
especially the metaphors that are so elegantly
constructed. Even if the line endings are somewhat
haphazard and none of the lot rhymes in any
considerable way, the point of the endeavor and
its ultimate raisin de etre or whatever is that
it brings my ideas and feelings into the world.
My naked fleshy wet body of poetry bursts
screaming into the world and now it’s a tornado or
really a combination tornado-hurricane like device that
turns with glory and rips the tattered rooftop
off my own inequities. There is nothing left of me
in the wake of its great destruction, there are only