Quite often when I read my poetry it’s like I’m having an out of body experience. I process the pieces, and I understand that I wrote them, but it takes me to a frame of life that I quite often haven’t visited for a minute – particularly reading old work.
My poetry is what keeps me sane. It’s like my scripted world exactly as I sense it with no challenge or debate. I guess that’s part of what makes it so different to me from my other writing.
For example, Novel, when it’s bloody done, will be pitched. I’ll basically get my bitch on and beg and plead important people until someone notices and publishes it for me.
I think I’ll always self-publish my poetry. That’s my guts.
I made a new friend recently who left my apartment with Poetry One, Two and Three in tow. I think he is the only person on Earth, besides me, who has all three of those books. I don’t even really want to read them anymore. My voice has changed so much over the past five years. Sometimes when I read old poetry, it’s like I don’t even know who I was then.
I like the words that I’ve been painting this week. Probably because of what inspires them. I’ve gone on inspiration tangents before, next to love it’s my favorite feeling and in a way they go hand in hand.