No Direction (Hoarder of Words)

I'll begin the poem with I, in spite of all I've read regarding the absorbed self
starting every line with it.


I read a poem today from a friend who I've never read anything from before.
It was good. Very good. It had all the restraint of years of not writing.
It made me consider my faults, such as the lack of direction, in all my endeavors. That's me. But I stopped pretended I had it long ago. I will always seek it, but fall short in the clarity of purpose, and the sharp edge of a plunging blade.
I can't make the choices alone. The real decision about what to cut. No discipline in the one place I don't want it, but need it, as much as needing to stop making an enemy of my audience. Alienation will not work in any communiqué.
I'm too prolific, but don't mind not stopping. It makes me feel better about everything else I don't do prolifically. I am a hoarder of words, and now I have a hoard of words.
They've gone from toothpicks to block paragraphs and no one reads them anyway.
They fill out my oversized poetic dress, squeezed from my organs by the corset
embellishing the bustle where I sit. Pouring from the bell bottom of the hem
out at the ankles of my swollen, pregnant, childish form of pretend-a-pride.
Impassable I've been told. Dense. I'm sorry for everything you've read if it wasted your time.
If you left feeling worse, or with less questions, I apologize. All apologies, though this time they have nothing to do with the amends of an alcoholic. Just an initiated, genuine reconciliation for the monstrous and empty rants and psychiatric pathos. Sorry.