Dung Heap

This is where it all ends up: the refuse of my life. Somehow I always find it dribbling off the tip of my pen, making itself into letters, words, lines, stanzas, cantos. I've written enough didactic poetry to instruct ten classes in how not to write. I hate how it all turns out: I don't need any help sharing the loudmouth jerk everyone knows. I need help sharing the written parts of me: the refuse not strong enough to make the prideful cut of arrogant jackass. Somebody talk! I feel like a talentless Demosthenes, shouting into the ocean with rocks in my mouth. If this is just practice, I suppose I can't ask for anyone to pay attention or respond to this madness. The past few weeks lodged themselves in my head in a chaotic fashion. I can't tell the difference between what I hear inside my ear, and what I hear from outside my ear. Everything is a mess, and I don't know if I'm making any sense. I make more drivel than I can handle sometimes; this is one of those times. When I wake up tomorrow, another day will come, and I will shout at the ocean again. When my sword of hope is polished, I wish someday my words compel more than silence. When my sword of hope is blunted, I suspect it never will as I eye the bull of fears, unarmed.