7:51 p.m. - September 02, 2001
disappointment
I put this poem up, but I only left it there for maybe an hour because I couldn't stomach seeing it there when my page came up. Call me quick to judge, but I always close pages that come up poetry first; glaring into your eyes like an illustration of self-deprecation you can reach out and touch. Even though that's not always what the poetry's about; it's what stares into my mind first. Preconceptions. Never look at my diary through April, it's full of it. The 'art' through all of my writing comes with the atmosphere. My poetry book, its tattered edges, the thick brown cover with indented prose, the paper-thin white pages inside, handwriting scrawled upon it always changing. Sometimes there's illustrations in the background of my poetry, sometimes the poetry itself is shaped like an illustration. Whenever I look at what I write, transformed onto the screen, I'm vastly disappointed. Not that it was genius before, or even passable, but on that purple screen it's embarrassing, those stark paragraphs, the spaces, the lack of any kind of imperfection to make it sing. I might stop putting it up. I wouldn't want to be misrepresented; oh, but that's a laugh, who do I think I'm referring to? The queen of misrepresentation, but I'm only perfectly happy to misrepresent if it's for the better. How typical is that?

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