afraid of my poem

I wrote it. It kept getting better. Draft after draft. Me, pretending I am crafting something. Believing the words are dripping with emotions and context and meaning that probably make no sense to anyone but me. What would I tell people if they read it? Am I required to answer questions about what was in my head at the moment I chose those words? Well, regardless, I would feel obligated with one glance, one question, one long look. I have no answer so I keep the poem to myself for now. There is nothing horrible in the poem, its just what I was capable of imagining.

Like painting and songwriting and singing, writing poetry is something I have never done before. Maybe I had to write something in 7th or 8th grade, but I really don’t remember. So I thought I would give it a try.

And now I don’t know what to do with it.

So I shared it with a poet friend in Guangzhou, China.  Hoping she would say it is horrible, throw it away, and thereby solve my problem.  But she didn’t help.  She said it was beautiful.

So I still search, what to do with this mess.

David