[Not_here]

I was really shy to post this but I'm posting it anyway. Because sometimes I get really shy and this poem is like a metapoem .

Another night waiting. Waiting for that perfect moment to turn rough drafts into well sculptured poetry. Poets are hybrids-part artist and part crafter. It takes a skilled artisan to turn raw emotions-messy, fiery, extremely irrational and unstable into something dimensional, layered, meaningful. Powerful words that challenge and transform.To know when incubating stage is over and it is time to deliver. To pick the fruit off the tree. That it isn't unripened nor overripened. It is a long messy process of sickness, hard labor, blood and pain. And yet beautiful when a poem is born. Sometimes even multiples at a time.
To hold a living poem is a precious thing. Especially if you were the one to nurture it and watch it grow.
I'm waiting here...not because I haven't nurtured my idea seeds. But because I am an amateur. I do not trust myself that I'm "doing it right"
So here I am. I waited to take a mind hike and ultimately write something at the perfect time; nighttime. The time that anything goes and no one really understands. But when nightfall arrived I was not ready. Maybe early morning will give me better luck

.Im really shy to post this but I'm posting it anyway. So yeah.