Poetic Prison
The worse thing you can do to a blooming writer is decline to hear a piece of their writing. They are already brimming with insecurites about the placement of their words. But then by some miraculous miracle, they get over that insecurity and ask, if you want to hear a piece they've been working on. And you say "No." What you have done with that one syllable word, is decline a piece of their soul. A piece that they were ready and willing to share with you. Now the soul fragment that was offered onto the table does not go back into their chest. Something much more tragic happens. The fragment shatters. That little bit of trust they had in you? Gone. All because you are "Picky about your poetry." You try to make it better by saying. "Oh don't worry, I'll hear it eventually." I do not choose to bare my soul to everyone, at every second, of every day. The chances of me choosing to reveal my soul to you, when you ask Are nil to none. Because you had a chance. And you declined. In that instant you became the new muse. All the poems I ever write from this point forward. (Til the point where I build a new soul fragment.) Will be about you. And the weight, and the sound of the word "No." leaving your lips. Because thats what writers do. We write about what we know. What we feel. What we see. So welcome to creative hell, my friend. Where I hold the pen that dicates your punishment.
