It seemed too self-indulgent—a prosaic recounting of my

NS experience that could be of interest to nobody. The kind of thing

you’d automatically tune out in conversation…

                                                                     I think these poems are absolutely weird

                                                                     and want some raw reading through them.

Its first draft was laughed at by a bunch of RI guys…I’m rather ashamed of it.

When trying to reason out whether or not to submit to this issue,

I found myself in this ouroboros-esque self fulfilling loop,

where I’d first doubt myself from submitting,

then read the issue description,

thereafter consider submitting

and alas, restarting the cycle.

It’s near and dear to my heart,                                                                                                                                                            

but I can’t seem to find a comfortable home for it                                                                                                                                                           

I’ve been holding on to these paragraphs, wondering if they would really

fit anywhere, but knowing that I could not delete them either.

The prompt of ‘the misfit piece that tries a bit too hard’ feels right for it.

                                                   I was too angry to submit it anywhere at first, and then I missed my moment.

                                                   My readings of the poem have been stirring up controversy at poetry readings in Ontario, Canada, for six months.

                                                   The desire to tell my grandmother’s story outweighed the need to adhere to form.

what some see as cloistering, suffocating,

and desperately in need of rupture, i see as

the most earnest expression of affect.

I am too embarrassed to send this elsewhere                                                                                                                                                                              

This poem came from a time of desperation and longing                                                                                                                                                           

I do not really know what exactly this piece is trying to say.                                                                                                                                                     

This work is a peek into my delusional and traumatized brain. It is a peek into the stirring mess that no one wants to look at.                                               

It is a piece that even I don’t want to reread. It is disgusting, yet truthful.                                                                                                                                 

I think it shares too much. I think it is too emotional. I think it is drunk. I think I should not put my real name to it.                                                              

I hope it will be alright and not too painful to read.                                                                                                                                                                    

                                 I’ve stopped sending these pieces out. It’s only your unorthodox call

                                 for submissions that has led me to revive these zombies…

This piece is raw and hot. To be honest I just needed a space

to share what I’ve written even if it’s in an email.

I have hundreds of poems like this. I suppose everyone does.

I have never written a humorous poem. This is a misfit. Please keep it.

I actually found this poem in the trash. Literally. I don’t mean the digital bin,

but among sopping, soggy bits of things. There were a lot of things that were

no longer clear, words-wise, but because the feelings were, it was easy to

clean up (again, LITERALLY, not editorially) and send it over to you.

                                                                     The storyline is a plateau instead of a mountain…[with] a primary school composition kind of feel to it. 

This story definitely smells a little. :)

>>

<<