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sated, sated
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sated, sated sated, sated because of 4 written november 24th, 2020 sated, sated my body prostrate sated, sated in screams and trembling sated, sated now loosed with our coming sated, sated the passion fear worry love shame beauty the terrible aloneness has all been spent and i am sated, sated |
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I am so happy when poems come. Of course, it helps if I sit and try to write. I get something down. Then I write and rewrite until the words feel polished and correct. Until the words become unchanging. I think about the rhythm a little bit, I fall in love with certain words, I want to use that word, like "spent" in too many places. then i scroll through a thesaurus, and "prostrate" maybe is an interesting choice? I fuss and obsess and rewrite until I am tired of it all and I decide to let it go, the way it is. Here it is. For you who is reading this. It is not perfect, but maybe it is enough, for today.
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I don’t think any writer is ever truly satisfied with their work. We all have different processes. I’m a died in the wool Pantser. Your poem is very poignant. The emotion bleeds through the screen. Very nice indeed. My name is MrWrong and I approved this comment
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11/24/2020 2:54 pm |
Nice
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Very well written!!
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a sensuous poem . very nice
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