Saturday, November 5, 2011

Unedited

Unedited,
I am
scrawled notes
on scraps of paper
shoved into binders
and stacked into piles
that tower,
teeter,
threaten to topple and spill
my words
all over another
unsuspecting page.

12 comments:

manicddaily said...

Just lovely. K.

Sheila Moore said...

oh, that is me too!

Fireblossom said...

What ya need, kid, is an edita!

Brendan said...

I'm convinced that poetry is all about looooove -- I and Thou, lover and beloved, the writer reaching across to the reader with the thought of the heart. And all of those past (and mostly, I speak for myself, failed) attempts are like so many past conquests and loves, rapturous for an hour or season, spent, and left behind or put on the stack, while the next clean sheet of the page, the bed, awaits for the next psalm of passion. Or something. The sum, kid, is sumthin' - at least in the writing, the writhing, et cetera. - Brendan (p.s. so are you gonna show us your piles? -- er, let me re word that, how about some pix of The Tower? (and yes, there's a shadowy underground of all that didn't survive to make it to that pile)

somewhereamelody said...

I find myself in this :) Somewhere between the scrawled note and the new blank page.

Fred said...

Wow, this is me to a tee. Threaten to topple-always, spilling everywhere-indeed. Great piece, thanks

ayala said...

Oh me to :)

Marion said...

Love, love this and can so relate! I found you via Shay's blog. IMO, the world needs as many fucking poetry blogs as it can cram into/onto the Internet. Rock on, Mama Zen!! xo

Tara R. said...

You are in my head!

Christine said...

those scraps of unedited writings are the door to the unharnessed soul, awesome, you just described my journal before i publish it on my blog

Caty said...

I think unedited folks make the most fun...the most interesting at least :)

Suzy said...

Love this. Thanks for visiting my blog.