i went back through
my old pieces
and it all became so
bleached,
white sugar, white rice,
skim milk, I used to be
so rich, cream, honey
oak sap,
I wrote and it felt
natural, saw in
words and coffee
hues, tastes and
teaspoons clinking
bowls rolling, counters
covered in flour
batter running into the
sink and onto my
feet, i could bake
bread on my palms
leavened and without
yeast
i wrote like everything
was alive because it was
because it is
because I am.
read a lot of my stuff from last spring, i've always been cautious about becoming too wordy. I have this conception about how i should write poetry and what sounds pretentious--i get really caught up in how other people read my stuff. Anyway, I've been censoring myself over the past few months because someone told me to 'stop using such big words' and 'say what I really feel'. But this is what I really feel, in big words and really
long drawn out flower analogies.