by Corinne Ferry

Created on: May 14, 2008

These are the effects of poetry:

I stopped writing in this particular fashion.
The desire to make my life extra ordinary,
blowing up minimal passions
just to give my life meaning.

A life worthy of ink on paper,
documentation of existence.
SHE was a tortured and passionate woman,
WE rip each other apart in writing groups.

There is safety in writing.
An outlet for anger,
for love, and for lust.
Emotions that bubble times one thousand.

Sylvia Plath's baked consciousness,
booze-hound self-loathing Bukowski womanizing gypsy,
Robert Frost seemed normal but he was boring.

My friends sit in circles
leading theatrical lives,
acting out for one another.

Trying to impress and best the one's we think are:
Beautiful and exemplified,
everyone else is stodgy.
Except for us
the chosen ones;
children of the written word.

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