I tend to agonize over writing – I do nothing but self-edit and criticize my writing to the point that I never, ever show it to anyone because it never feels “good enough.” I have not been especially happy with most of my poems this month – some of them I felt that I did the best that I could given a form I didn’t care for (I nonetheless performed as well as I felt I could given the constraints), but the last couple of poems, including this one, written in blank verse, I’m really not thrilled with, because they are literally no restraints on my writing, and I’m just not sure what to do with what I have or where to go with it.
Intellectually, I know this is fine, because I sit down and write these in a very short span of time, and that’s not generally how quality work is produced – you write, and edit, and re-write, etc. But I still feel self-conscious about my drafts. Especially when I literally can’t finish them.
No idea how to wrap this poem up. Suggestions would be welcomed.
Logically, he assumes your fear
Has to do with getting bitten.
You’re nineteen years old, in his room,
And he’s guiding your hand,
Showing you how to stroke
Slow and sure along its dorsal scales,
Across the undulating pattern
of sand and cobalt.
They aren’t venomous, he says,
As though poison is the only way
You pull away.
Once, a boy —
Drunk, slithering, serpentine–
Wound his arms around you
And wouldn’t let you go.
This was written (but not finished – argh!) for OctPoWriMo.