The word Detective

I have written 14 poems,
since yesterday,
and I have not written on my blogs in two days.

I’m unsure of what to share,
or give away,
and what to keep for a rainy day?

Which poems are ripe-for the picking?
and which are rotten,
to their core?

So many words,
create a flood
drowning me in a sea of inadequacy.

I spit out words,
into my journal, just so
I don’t choke on them.

they taste like bad and broken down,
leather.
no. They taste like black licorice
and black magic.

Just because you can
think of something, to write about-
does not make it something worthy.

a free-verse flies by me.
It’s buried in a coffin
and travels by hearse.
It’s darkness looms by the assumption-
I cannot bring it back to Life.

-to resurrect some sort of poetry,
by giving it mouth to mouth.

words are everything,
but so many words
do not matter in the end.

As a writer you
must pick and choose,
which word equipment to use.

I read through my litany,
of literacy.
I read through my garbage salad,
searching for the juicy, the crazy, and the unique.

It’s hard to make choices,
to be uber-selective,
to play the part
of the poetic
word detective.

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