I think about my words sometimes, and I wonder their motivation. I suppose it might be my way of playing a guitar. I can’t play a single ballad on a guitar, but words just seem to flow for me sometimes. Yet the truth is every word I write I wonder if it’s legitimate or I’m just a breathy fraud. I do love to write, especially when I step into a zone. I’ve been known to hammer out ten or fifteen poems in around 30 minutes. There lays my question, is it really poetry or simple word salad? I know I can sometimes feel there is a zone I step into that makes my words come alive, and I truly think that is one of the coolest experiences I can describe. But, I guess it’s the in between that leave me curious and skeptical. I find myself wondering if my poetry is really that, or if it is prose written in a stylistic manner on the page. I know I have had a few wonderful moments when a poem certainly comes to life and tells a story. I rememberr when I taught poetry I always suggested the student look for the story in the words and not dwell on discovering the hidden meaning. I think the latter is what scares the reader the most. Well, at least it did when I was in sixth grade. So some sixty years later now, I have confidence in what I tell or told my students about poetry. It really is words designed to tell a story. So is prose for that matter, or a brief essay like the one I just wrote. Good night, now.