piercing mountains with bad almost-poems

Bad jumble to a boy:

"And as for your �horrible prose�, surely you exaggerate. Besides, I hope you are writing a lot right now. Long letters to nobody or god -- full of noxious metaphor and no irony whatsoever � momentary brilliance squeezed between casually mundane (to use for campfire fuel later). Short angry poems to unknown gods � complaining about how ancient philosophy cut with the purity of pain has blurred your vision. Self-medicating poem-words, hallucinogenic crumbs � filled with incoherent grumbling insipidly modest and mediocre. Grizzly cuplets about your collapsing soul to your well-beloved in its favorite incarnation. Piercing poems in the shape of mountains. Write the strange songs that penetrate your bones and make you feeble, in the hope that someday there will be silence. (Talk about bad prose- but you get the point)."

In this small conglomeration, I scare myself that I would try to write again. That I would try for him to give up some strength, some words reserved for cards with flowers on the front and sentiment inside. But will I fall prey to my own cowardace? Does it matter? Am I on a precipis of some kind? Will the world judge a poor girl with poor prose trying to inspire the boy of her dreams but only of her dreams into bitter words to soothe his soul? I guess I'm ok with that. Life goes on without emails from the mountains.