Like you,
(I suppose)
I cringe at my poems
often
they seem sour
or too tart.
They have been called
fierce
But I'm too tame to tell
what that may mean...
I don't mean to complain and lament
vent-
No, yes, I do.
Poetry is my only place to put
pesky perplexing intellectual problems
(that make me insane)
and confusing confudling conundrums
(that cause me brain pain)
about what-nots and that's and i's
about love, and existence and
perishing...I wince too.
I'm not like my poems,
they are my comfy clothes
(without make-up)
And somehow this non-me
hiding in my poetry
is beginning to resemble
someone new
I'm not needing an answer right now
but I think you sense it too...
I smell a rat-but I have a cat,
I can be fierce like that.
