Just so many drafts.
I have a scribble book, as I call it, filled with poems and musings.
I know that there are writers who say, finish them all. But that's not always possible.
The thread gets lost.
The feeling gets burned.
The moment is beaten.
And it just goes by the by.
For me, my poetry these days is fairly fragile. It's deeply personal and I'm not willing to put my heart out on the table for just anyone to see. In fact, not for anyone to see. I get close, but something happens and I turtle it in.
Essays, no big. Like my opinion, don't like my opinion, I don't care.
Musings? Take them or leave them. They are mine.
So, off of here I go. And will those poems ever see the light of day?
Who knows. I'm afraid those have to be earned.
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