But sorrow is--

Tomorrow, I'm going to a Poetry Club meeting at the fountain. I love poetry, and I even sometimes enjoy reading my own to people, but usually those people are ones that I trust considerably or, if it's in a class, my voice changes somewhat and I simply can't look them in the eyes. Come to think of it, when I write poetry, I often can't look people in the eyes anyways while reading. There's a certain amount of trust that you invest in another person when you show them something deeply personal; it's not like giving a gift, it's more giving a piece of your brain, putting it into their hands, and hoping they won't drop it but will instead just examine it and then place it back, softly, into the puzzle of your head.

I might read the one about the sand castles that I wrote last year or the one about the whore. Not sure yet. Maybe I won't read at all. But if I'm ever to muster up enough actual courage to submit my shit somewhere, I will have to learn to read infront of people besides the three or four others at Writer's Exchange and a few other people. The fact is, most of what I write is semi- or fully-autobiographical, and that often is very clear. I'm terrible, particularly while reading, at concealing the fact that the words are about me, that it is not a hypothetical situation. I am not good at those.

I first read this poem a few years ago. I really like it.

"Untitled" by Charles Bukowski

all theories
like clichés
shot to hell,
all these small faces
looking up
beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe
but belief is a
graveyard.
we have narrowed it down to
the butcherknife and the
mockingbird.
wish us
luck.