Profound Fences

Reading past writing is extremely embarrassing. Most of the writing that seemed oh so brilliant a few month ago now sounds clumsy, cliche, and just plain bad. It's disheartening to think that everything I write now will sound just as bad when I read it over in a few months.

One of the poems I remember being extremely proud of last year was one called 13 Ways of Looking at an Old Fence. I remember thinking that I was a literary genius, that my writing was extremely profound and, well, legit. Some of the stanzas:

I do not know why it is
That no fence can stop a human
Yet a human can be stopped by

(Note the extremely clever separation of "fear" from the rest of the line in an attempt to create "tension.")

Its color, weathered gray,                 
Partly rotted, yet
Areas of faded yellow
Remain on the fence
Remnants of the past
Reminders of the evil of time.

Ooh, how profound.
And because I felt that the poem lacked a vocab word:

In the midst of busy suburbia,
The wooden fence
Is as germane,
As a fish out of water.

And there's one stanza that stands out, because I am clueless as to what it could possibly mean. I don't know what I was thinking:

An eyesore, some say
And they try to
Erase the stars.

Some people think that poetry is meant to be ambiguous, cryptic, but at least the writer should have some inkling as to what he is writing about. But I like this stanza. I think that people admire what they cannot understand, and assume that it is "good." So in many cases, complete bs is regarded as genius. And this stanza, I believe, is complete bs.

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