Feeding the Feed

Something about writing feels illicit

My notebooks fill with poetry, thoughts, worlds of idea

Writing never ceases

But the sharing

It feels

Illicit

My desire to be known is present

But to be known in a sea of others seeking

It feels impossible, and if possible... it feels illicit

My desire to be known is ever-present

My writing bares my soul

If I could wear it near my heartbeat on my sleeve

I would

But to post it in the cogs of the web

To share slivers of my soul for likes

It feels illicit

My calendar has a recurring reminder to write a post

So I write

But my calendar has never reminded me to "hit post"

My writing feels like a secret

Something delicious that feeds my being

My desire to be seen by other beings is chocked by the crush of having to share on something so cold as the myriad of .coms

So I cease to feed the feed as my writing feels illicit as it has become more and more, just for me.