i wake up with wild fantasies
about the important poems i’ll write
contemplating complex rhythms
internal rhymes
looking forward to the times
when i can sit with pen and paper
[screen and keys]
and just
put it all out there.

and yet

when i am ready for the writing part
of my morning
i am hit with not only the absence of any important poetry
i cannot think of any subject matter
good enough to put into words.

and if i try to force it
(the important subjects, that is)
they churn in my mind
making zero connections
barely able to put into words
(much less gorgeous wordings)
my mind meditates
and spits out
‘racism
america
bad’
my thoughts
as a white person
of much privilege
[but not all]
could be important
for others of my similar privileges
but would it be worth it
when there are so many who still don’t have a voice?
and so my brain resets
and says
‘write another poem about candy
about the cat napping on your lap as you write this
about the silly things your autocorrect says
about the concept of writing poetry
anything silly and light.’
and my mind mulls again
‘i have a unique perspective
being in the middle
the crossroads of gender
(or maybe completely outside it)
always the observer
of societal mores
(which i always thought was morays)’
but once again my brain interrupts
and says
‘you can’t.
you’re too tired
sleepy
hungry
confused
distracted by this cat
can’t get into it
can’t get out of it
just write fluff
write fluff until your brain seeps
out
and you can maybe fill it
with important things
(that you may or may not actually remember)
once again.’