The Real
When I think about writing, I think that sometimes I try too hard. That when I put words to paper - or otherwise words to the computer, that I'm pushing toward something that I shouldn't push on. Maybe it's a bit too over zealous or a bit too over the top.
Looking back on prior works, those bits of poetry, prose and stories, I was in a spot that was overly emotional, tending to lean toward the more 'pity me' parts then anything. Some - although erotic in writ, spoke to me of nothing more than a woman crying on her pillow each night. Years later, those words still seem a bit strained, but they're just words aren't they?
I dropped him in a sea of knowing
Allowing him to gasp for air…
He struggled within my waves, drowning
In my knowledge that he couldn’t see
Nor hear, taste…
His mouth filling with tears as I watched the waves take him
Further from me, never letting
His legs, struggling to keep him afloat
Pumped like pistons only to be caught
As I dived in and held on,
Dragging him further underneath
Not letting him know
That I knew…
2007 (S.O.A.)
