Henry Wordsworthless Longsuffering

Even in my booze-fueled state, I’ve made a sobering realization that most of the poetry I wrote in the 90’s is absolute shit. We’re talking creepy, sketchy, pedestrian. Wow. Damn. I mean even if it were to be put into context, what the fuck was I thinking? I mean I was in my 20’s, and trying to figure shit out, and trying to move myself forward while sitting in the darkness of my bedroom hunched over a notebook, but it all comes out so dirty, so adolescent, so junior high. I shouldn’t be glad I stopped writing, but really that’s just causing more problems than solving. I need to write more, a lot more, so I can get better. Shit, any blathering nonsense is better than radio silence. But do I have to produce so much low-quality dirt?

Update: Yeah, I know I’m being a little too hard on myself. I’ll grant that. Yes, among the piles of rock I mined, there were a few real jewels. I just need to keep chiseling to find the mineral vein that will lead me to the motherlode. And as far as “creepy” goes, there are musicians who’ve made millions on lyrics that, when held up to the light, reveal ten different shades of wrong (The Toadies, The Doors, and Weezer come to mind).

Published by Shawn

He's just this guy, you know?