I should’ve been doing anything that made me seem more important at the moment. Stabbing out a cigarette comes to mind, but I don’t smoke. Can’t think of an equivalent.
I was saying, “Like when I wrote poetry…” because poetry seemed to me a thing of vice. A rebellion against how you are supposed to see, and experience, and understand words.
An expression from the most bottom layers of my soul, but something of my teens. Another imagination, another fantasy, another boy.
Then poems became expression of my dreams
And dreams turned into poems,
And life churned and ebbed and flowed like spun batter.
And now I sit and write about what doesn’t matter.