Poetry man.

13 Nov

Last night I did my first poetry reading.  No, really.  I, a presumably grown man, stood up in front of a group of strangers are read structured verse sans rhymes that were (more or less) about my feelings.  The weird part is that they were well received.  Don’t take this to mean that I would denigrate the fine art of verse.  Rather, I’m denigrating those foolish enough to think they’re writing fine verse.  You know the types–they’re the overly enthusiastic ones in every creative writing class across the country.  If you’re really unlucky, their significant other is in the class with them, and they read love poems to each other.

It’s a little too much circle jerking for my tastes.  Yes, I write poems about women.  Mostly women I’ve lost.  I’d only read the poems to those women out of spite, or, if the poem is vague and disguised enough, out of some pissant irony, snickering to myself as I say mean things about them without them getting it.  Alright, my poetry’s not that petty, but it is that selfish, and the thought that I would dare think anyone else would care about it nauseates me.

So why did I do it?  Why did I read poetry to a crowd of strangers?  Fuck if I know, but I do know that I liked it.  And that’s the worst part.


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