A Look Back At Eighteen Months Here-The Show Is Over

A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over When your poems reside in a shoe, like mine, pounding the pavement to nowhere. The onset of blisters isn't imagined. Those blisters take roots, hindering your motivation to move- and to continue to write. It hurts. Seeing those poems take residence in pity. Sans the comfort of leather and lace, shine and sole, all of which would have been nice. But all my eyes see are my poems, tucked away in worn loafers, unpolished, unnoticed. Not exactly eye candy. But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here. And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics and sneakers to the purveyors of good poetry and good shoeshine. I look down for good reason, defacto and stigmatized, no contest wins, no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list, no scent of roses (or views), nothing. Nothing. An abyss of sublimity, save for the white bird that chirps to nobodies ears. To wit. For he who signs up for this site got a handful of mixed emotions, confetti less tomorrows, a begotten rah, rah, a ladle of spiel, poems published ... and in my case alone footnote that I was a member sans the shoe shine. I really have to admit, writing here, eighteen months now, has taken its toe. I have no one to blame but myself. Kind Regards, connie pachecho 4/26/2018 The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare. The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.