You wrote them to yourself.
Close to fifteen years of them.
Stacks. Books. Files. Journals.
A lifetime of rants and whines,
of amazement in words,
paens to patience,
At times, you think about burning them,
reducing your past to ashes,
as if somehow the mere act
would bring about something new.
Instead, you have hoarded them,
these war and peace writings
that have less plot than Joyce on his worst day.
No, they are not history.
They are not art.
They are a bloodletting and little more, examples
of the ancient belief that draining, heals,
assuming you survive.
About this poem
I am a journal writer. I believe in the power of journal writing. But it’s not always pretty.