seem disturbingly dark
or excessively crude
and then when I don’t write about them,
I question my reasons for censoring myself.
At other times I find myself attracted to repetition of a chanting nature
or to mindless lists of syllables that clash or mesh
but there isn’t any meaning to them
and I wonder why that holds any appeal.
Pigtown, Pigtown, all the way to Pigtown
we had to get to Pigtown
we fought to get to Pigtown
Pigtown, Pigtown, carry me to Pigtown
Carry me to Pigtown now.
There are times when an idea seems extremely important
and I’m anxious to commit it to paper before I lose the thread
but then after thinking about it a while
I realize it’s not important at all
and maybe even a little bit trite
and I throw away the paper I was writing on.
Sometimes the things I want to write about
seem too mundane to warrant the effort
or even pointless
and yet often
I find myself writing about them anyway.