Destroy

Cathartic purging.

I have erased
Every copy
Of all the
Hundreds of poems
I have written since I
Started writing at sixteen;

I am now forty-six,
So that's thirty years
Of my life in (usually)
Fevered verse.

It felt like cutting off
My own left arm.
I was supposed to
Try to pick out my
Best dozen or so
For review and
Maybe publishing,
And the very thought
Of having to pick even
Twelve was so terrifying
To me for some reason
That I couldn't rest until
All of them were gone.

No poems, not from me,
My self-indulgent scribbles,
Just like this one, when I'm honest
Weren't anywhere good enough for
Any Festival of Words, who was I kidding?
And when I realized this (finally), after reading
Through all of them, I just knew they had to go.

My stomach feels sick,
The room is spinning as
Fast as my life is... all
Of those poems, that
Felt like a part of me,
And beyond being a
Chronicle of where I
Came from and where I might be
Going, I had a deeply misplaced
Vanity for all that scribbling on
The inside of cigarette packages
And bar napkins, which might say
A lot about them, and why they
Were what they were and even now
I'm breaking that cardinal rule that
You never write about writing, nothing
Could be more boring for anyone to read.

It seems so strange to me
That I could just erase every
Trace of those hundreds of poems so
Easily, both physically and emotionally,
Just by following an impulse, and
With a few clicks off a mouse,
And a few key-strokes.
Gone.
Like all those
Words never existed.

But I feel something else;
I feel a sense of liberation
Like all those old poems
That I held onto so tightly,
Well, maybe it wasn't me
Holding on to them as much
As they were holding on
To me, without emotion,
Without pity, with so many
Of them accusatory towards
Me, a rage turned inward...
Were those scribbles
Of mine really ever my friends, or
Were they merely chains wrapped
Around me, and in a way, keeping me
From progressing, from living, and now
That they are gone, so maybe is anything bad
That grew out of them, and the regrets? Yes, it is
Liberation, I just didn't recognize the flavour,
The taste of freedom, not immediately,
But now I taste it, and though still
Tinged with a hint of loss, I do
Taste freedom, and this
Freedom does taste
Absolutely delicious.

Reviews

[Drifter]

It was actually on purpose... I am already kind of regretting it because I was in a rash mood, but I really did want to start anew, or better yet, I needed to.

If nothing else, erasing all those poems that I cherished has made me over the last few days realize that I take myself much too seriously, and getting a fresh start, well, I think it may help me to relax a little more and realize none of the events in my life are the end of the world (even though they may feel like it at the time). And also, my poems in a way were nothing more than memories, and I still have those memories to keep.

This old line I'd read a long time ago was in my heart when I deleted all my poetry collection: "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him." It's a cryptic piece of advice, but maybe it explains why I had to get rid of anything old to feel free to start writing new chapters in my life.

Thanks for reading and your comments Victoria, I appreciate them.

[victoria]

Oh my, I assume it was accidental...I'd be horrified initially. Please you feel liberated, not sure I would. A poem that gives me pause for thought for sure.