Indulge Me.

Today is National Music Appreciation Day (or something), and I have been appreciating music very much. I've also been appreciating typewriters and journals and light and trees and this Indian summer weather and the hippie style of dress and tea and perfectly roasted chicken and learning how to love and learning about the Constitution and reading, reading, reading.

I've been wondering whether my poems, the ones I struggle over and second-guess, are any good. They've stopped rhyming conventionally (I've thrown in much more internal rhyme and rhythm), and I suppose they've grown as I have. Maybe people aren't ready for them. Maybe I delude myself. I wanted to say "regardless," but it's not... I care very much if my work is quality or not. It matters to me what my poems make you feel. The images you see as you read are incredibly important to me.

But there is very little feedback. I wish I had more of it, good or bad, just so I could know what I'm doing wrong, or right, or what.

I wrote this one about a week ago and it garnered more response on dA than any other piece I've done.

Indulge Me.

If I write about important things,
and the world is thrown
into a circle of unrest, a valley of death;

If I write and they crown me queen
march out from underneath me in droves
(black and yellow, red and white,
all are precious in my sight) and my ideas
are cheered like new green things
growing from black moss, and I’m so boss
I’m crazy but they love love love me;

If I write out a grand new scheme that
came to me in the swirly cream of my cappuccino,
and the new National Capital is the
corner Starbucks, and the guerillas in their
jungles turn their guns into fruit juice;

If I write a word that tosses the content
of the cabinet like a controversial salad
all the animals in the zoo run wild through
the swampy narrows then
the alleyways reverse from the dank;

If I write with a prowess
so that upheaval follows
the stress of political correctness;