The Writing Process, in Process

I've debated all day about whether I should post the most recent incarnation of the "poem" I've been working on. Okay, so I know it is technically a poem; it just seems odd to see it in print. Who am I to share such writings with others? What would cause me to believe that anyone else would be interested in how I might breath life into such words? And then, I changed my mind. 

[As Yet Untitled]

The sky cries,

The trees bow their heads

in quiet prayer

The earth, she shakes, with anger

roars in pain,

But what do I care,

What do I care

My heart, broken, cries out

no one hears

So let the sky cry 

until her tears wash away

My pleas, mere whispers

to all unheard

So let the trees bow

and break in despair

My body lies crumpled, shaken in rage

Why shouldn't the earth tremble, 

share in my same fate

If the sun no longer shines,

overcome by night's fears

And the stars, fall from the heavens

without anyone to bear witness

their sins

Does it matter at all

Does anyone care

For aren't all our hearts broken

Shattered,

Scattered to the wind

 —July 2008

So, here's what happens next. I rip it apart, rewrite it a thousand times, toss it aside, and forget about it for a while. When I again stumble upon it, I may rip it apart ... again. Or maybe I'll let it lie in peace, never to be seen. I'm really not sure it matters; there's always another one waiting to be born.