Waxing Poetic

Not really, just waxing about nothing in particular. About how I will never be famous and that would have bothered me 5 years ago, but it doesn't now. How no one may ever be touched by my poetry of my prose, but that is ok. I am bothered by it, but I won't die a horrible lonely death like Poe of Dickinson--whose works are rather well known now, in case you didn't know.

I won't be written about or photographed, my life will not be splashed on the big screen and this is perfectly acceptable because for the first time in life I am able to admit my fault but celebrate my successes. I can see where I fail without being marked as an individual by it. To live is to be marked, and I want my body to be a map of all the right reasons.

I am in love, I am successful, and in 7 weeks time I will be a college graduate.

And even through all this happiness I manage to write pieces for my delightfully wicked chapbook of deranged mother/child pieces. I am beginning to think I have talent, oh ho.