Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

a small pile

I’m a little rusty, clumsy even
as I sift and sort the words--
the diction is there, I swear it
must be buried
 
I’m doubting if I can do it anymore.  Gone are the days when I could pick up and write... well.  It’s a real struggle now; even to find a simple simile that isn’t a cliche is like pulling hairs from your nose (oooh, see, awkward. Not sexy. Not gorgeous dripping prose that makes you want to lick the page). But here I am, desperate to respawn some love affair, nurture the coupling of letters, pull the willing faces into a suctioned kiss with my words. I’ve missed that feeling that comes, swells up warm from your thighs, burning up your trunk to the top of your head when you know you’ve created something--something brilliant, desired, envied, hated, pitied, questioned, investigated, stalked, lusted after from the depths of your lonely, narcissistic pit.  
 
A good writer knows you
have to be able to write
a lot of crap, dig it
out in piles until the blood
of your true gut shines.

 

-A. Rae Sterling