Thank you, but for some reason, when it comes to poetry, it’s all swirling fog & marble moon. No idea why. Actually, I do have an idea. It’s sad, but I’m not a romantic, like, at all. It takes all my energy (plus antidepressants) not to be swallowed up by a pragmatic hole of cynicism & pessimism.
I think maybe it takes a certain amount of hope to write poetry, even Sylvia Plath or e.e. cummings poetry.
Or, it’s like when I play Scrabble. As erudite as I am in life & on paper, when it comes to that game, I can only think in 3 & 4 letter words, & simple ones at that, too. Damn. Home. Cat.
So, what rhymes with tree? And then make up a whole story in a few lines? My mind bungee-jumpes from my brain into the dogs’ water dish.
As you can see, I need a whole lotta elbow room.