Words, my own words are difficult for me to keep around. One sentence exhaled is quickly inhaled. However writing a poem, even an essay or article isn’t me, or at least in those forms I do not have to trim and taper myself. Writing here and now is an effort, but also a chance at relief.
I want to write, but do I want to write as myself? I could chose a penname, and be off to the verbal races. But that still leaves my knowledge of the critique, the spew of not ever good enough.
Maybe it’s for the best that people do not want to see me as I am. But what about the eternity of a well written screed? But what is an eternity of falsity…
I will myself to write, I will myself in words edited only by truth. I am letting my voice chose me.