The Poet & Writer

I want to be a poet, so I say “I am a poet.” I want to be a writer, so I say “I am a writer.” I have these tales in my head I write them down. I have these poems I place in this dumping ground. They’re rough draft versions that need much work.

Editing- that’s what they need.

Editing, the dreaded daunting task of correcting my own work. In this exercise, I stab my piece and make it bleed. Slashing the prose of my mind, I become the killer—my very own horror movie. Holding a knife I cut through the surface of ideas, what a bloody mess! I begin stitching together the remains- I’m creating Frankenstein.

I have blood on my hands.

I must massacre all my hard work.

The blood, sweat, tears and hand cramps didn’t create an impeccable first draft. I do not want to hack away any piece of them, of the story or the lines of poems. I am, emotionally invested in the purpose of my prose.

Weaving together intricacies, creating new identities, giving life to the characters you read. Even made up people have feelings too!

I know that what I have is a draft. I know that I must continue to create.

I know that I must learn to walk away.

Breathe and take a break.

To write and create!