My Book is Out
No, it is not. But those are the four words I wish to say that keep me from sleep — the four words that push me to wake every day.
I understand myself to be capable of this task.
Medium is a beautiful thing to me, so many poets, as yet unacclaimed, and I wonder about their hurts, and these writers are so beautiful. It wrings out of their words, and these words are like tears shown to the world.
Little do they know how their poetry is saving me, as some things are as bad as I’ve ever known. But only creatively.
Poems, sewn together with a heart’s needle, say to hell with the prize. So many written with the courage of an alien in a strange place, written not knowing if anyone really wants to read its lines, but sent as if it would mean anything to someone.
You unknown poets, writing your blood, maybe sick, maybe confused, with ten minutes or ten years to contemplate your genius.
Your names are too many to list, but if it means anything to you, you’re saving a life out here. You’re teaching me how we all hurt, all love, and all suffer the next humiliation of loving words.
That’s all I can say. Shit. I don’t know why I’m writing this stuff anymore.
What a mess.
You poets cannot hide your impact on the world…poems do not simply drift off. Medium is my basket of flowers, my candy, poetry left secretly on my doorstep.
Your eloquence leaves me tearful.
Thank you, poets on Medium, every one of you.
