Attempting to make this public again

There's something that feels good when in my research I find a female poet who makes me feel okay, like somehow I am not as disengaged as I feel, like somehow my words have legitimacy instead of mistake. My insecurities with my writing disassemble in these moments. I feel like crying to someone, but that someone is dead and living in the screen in front of me. The dead speak to me. It's nice to be alone. They're always the ones that weren't so molded and had the strength to forgo some kind of security in conforming to a particular way of being that would automatically leave them in the mother's womb of society. They always die too early to be anything else.

I have learned that oftentimes my words stir others or offend them. I fear it. I fear the day I have to explain myself or defend my words because they are somehow connected to my character. I've been hiding this blog for awhile because its negativity streams from the innermost realms of my perception and onto the Internet where anything can be viewed and left for judgment. Old friends of mine perception of me had turned into a sassy, delusional, gin drunk girl living in a college town to a person who seemed to probe too far, too long and too much. In essence, I had dropped all of my petals and died a little upon moving to Kansas City two years ago. I rubbed some the wrong way because I was so tired of all of the things that kept happening to me.

But this blog isn't a blog, it's a thing that helps fuel my creative desire to write anything at all. Part of that desire is somewhat voyeuristic. My attempts to inject the blood back into it, and my poetry, have proved faulty. I can say that I have reached the point where I do not care. Ultimately, if I am a writer and even more intimately, a poet, I can't fear what people may think about my words. I can't be debilitated by criticisms of the past that have turned into demons instead of a force to help me grow and expand.

If I am crazy then you've never met a person who is crazy. You've never visited them like I have. If I am angry, cynical and busy spouting rash indecencies instead of backing up my opinions with enough facts for you, then you must not be paying attention to what is happening in front of you. If I am faulty or stupid or not what someone wants me to be in their imagination then I am not for them. Instead maybe they need a woman, or a poet, or an artist, or a friend, who embodies something less honest and more run down to a pulp by the flatness of our society. In that case, I don't need you. We're all going to be buried in the same dirt. This is all good enough for me to project my insecurities on this blog, or on a wall somewhere, and yell at them like a session in therapy. I may just do that. I'm doing it right now. Who do I need? No, just me. Just me.