I've changed so much. Over these last few years. My car and I drove so far, so many times I moved my things, my self. We had a plan, shifting between suburbs, I crossed the border and went into the city, finally, to see what it meant to be living.
The old jokes, familiar faces and past dreams. When you're finally in a position to accomplish them, it seems so real that the passion may as well be void.
I'm reading all of my poetry again. I can never decide whether I want to keep it, or destroy it all. It's all stories. Memories that recall raw learning experiences and 'the hard way'.
I made it through school, somehow.
I'll never be caught up with alcoholism. I don't have many solid, unchangeable rules in my life. But, this one is.
I just realised why I don't write any more.
I don't play music.
A third post in one day.
Tracy Chapman.
The old jokes, familiar faces and past dreams. When you're finally in a position to accomplish them, it seems so real that the passion may as well be void.
I'm reading all of my poetry again. I can never decide whether I want to keep it, or destroy it all. It's all stories. Memories that recall raw learning experiences and 'the hard way'.
I made it through school, somehow.
I'll never be caught up with alcoholism. I don't have many solid, unchangeable rules in my life. But, this one is.
I just realised why I don't write any more.
I don't play music.
A third post in one day.
Tracy Chapman.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Unless the poetry is really, really painfully bad. In which case it should not be thrown away but rather quarantined and investigated for possible weapons uses. As we all know, bad poetry that fails to be quarantined in time eventually ends up getting read to a tied up Arthur Dent on some massive spacecraft somewhere.
im with everyone else, dont throw it, i had stories i used to write and would just chuck them, now i regret that cos some of them were awesome
oh wellz