putting off procrastinating

ten minutes
to write a poem.
it’s not as if
the words aren’t swirling
around all day,
stanzas forming and unraveling
usually lost to the ether.

but I edit as I go,
the curse of the
self-conscious writer,
except when it comes
to this, editing my poems
is more like editing
my self.

I used to write
constantly; I used
words like road flares
and then I used them
like life rafts,
both for myself
and for others.

even when I fell
for the dangerous lie
that my words never mattered,
that didn’t stop them
from coming to me anyway.
I just ignored them
like they were men
catcalling me from passing cars,
hoping that if I worked
hard enough they’d just stop.

but instead they
burrowed into me,
coming out whether
I willed them or no,
imbuing text conversations
and Facebook statuses
with a gravitas better reserved
for a slightly more
controlled medium.
so here we are,
and though I welcome
the release,
it also scares me still.


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