“Love is one part lightning, two parts making up your mind.” — Kenny White
I’m in the honeymoon’s-over phase with my latest manuscript of poems. I had adored them. Loved them enough to have just plunked down $25 on a contest. Farewell, my dollars. Nothing like intending to read a few at an open mic to suddenly reveal my poems’ dirty faces, split seams, ragged underwear. I paw through them with dismay. This one is soulless. This one illogical. How did this one make it in there at all. A few scribbled edits as I go through them, but still none seem prepared for this. Finally with some editing I find one I could take by the hand. We go. I read it. Part of it disappears into thin air; the rest falls to the wooden floorboards. We go home. I toss it on top of the pile scattered across my desk. Of course it’s crap. I’ve always written crap. I’ll always write crap. They glare at me, these betrayers. I feel lonely in a crowd. Turn out the light. Tomorrow? We’ll see if I can ever believe in them again.