focus
focus
focus
write the poems
and don’t get distracted
by the music
or the artwork
or the potential bagels
arriving
anytime
soon
focus
focus
focus
don’t be taken in by
the coffee beside you
or the potential trips
all coming up
or the gig
later today
or the stress
slowly
approaching
encroaching
focus
focus
focus
you just need 300 words
it’s not that difficult
it’s not that hard
it’s not a means to an end
but instead
a means to
a beginning
lost
by the wayside
trapped
by the tears i cry
[a prison made of droplets
would be very asethetic
indeed]
at least there’s the smell
of cotton candy coffee
to bring me back to
this
reality
[whether or not that’s what i need
is not to be answered right now…
…probably]
locking eyes
trans on trains
but it’s more than
‘i see you, you see me too’
it’s the
‘i might know you
from our silly rectangular social boxes’
and lo and behold,
check the algorithm —
there you are
and there i am, not so much sliding
but stumbling into your dms
saying, ‘let’s be friends’
[and blaming my spouse in the process]
and i’m too nervous about awkward connections
to check the reply
just yet
but i do know you have
replied
and i think that’s enough connection
for this socially anxious
ball of rainbows.
[but now the spouse wants to know…]
i had a dream
[a stressdream]
[a nightmare really]
where i was back in college
[musical theatre college]
[in canada]
and it was time for some sort of dance critiques
or juries
or something
but it wasn’t 2012
it was now
today
with the coronavirus and everything
and one of my dancemates
tested positive for covid
but still came in
and didn’t even mask
because it “wasn’t a big deal”
because
“everyone will get it a few times anyway”
because
“it’s basically just a cold
and i’m not even showing many symptoms
anyway”
anyway
anyway
[i don’t actually remember everything this person said
because i stopped listening —
i was filled with pure rage
and disgust
and loss
and panic
and i freaked out
and ran far far away
because if i can’t trust those in my own like-minded friend-group
who in the fuck
can i trust?]
i’m still heart-pounding
skin-paling
high on adrenaline
with the crash coming soon
and i don’t know how to soothe
my beat-up nervous system
because real life
isn’t that much
different…
pick at the nail polish
pick at the skin beside
pick at your lips and the inside of your cheek
with your teeth
as they glide over and over and over
searching for purchase
searching for purpose
searching for something to quiet the mind
and never admit to having anxiety
ever
ever
ever in your life
[a poem for someone
maybe someone
other than me]
a lot
a lot
a lot
is going on in my mind
is happening outside of my body
outside of my control
outside of my knowledge
and i can’t seem to let go
of the idea that i can (and should) be responsible
for everything
everyone
every action
every reaction
every moment in every time
and every time i remind myself
‘i’m just human
i’m solely mortal
i can’t change the past or the future’
i find a way to find fault in everything i’m saying
to myself
[maybe that’s why i don’t often speak up
when first meeting others —
i’m too busy
telling myself to
shut up]
keep going
keep running
someday
you’ll outrun
the pain
and the memories
and the flashbacks
and the reminders
and when you’ve finally gotten far enough away
then
and only then
can you fully feel the feelings without fear
(at least that’s what i hear)
i see the world
through a poet’s eyes,
but also through the eyes
of depression
of anxiety
of ennui
of desperation
of overthinking
of too much knowledge
and not enough power,
but also through the eyes
of someone distinctly
of this century
this millennium
this time period —
speaking in meme
and shorthand
and writing all of my poetry
via computer keys and screen
and distracting myself with television
and video games
and podcasts
and anything to drown out
the sadness/despair/awareness
that a poet’s sense
sends/
that a poet’s eyes
see
my fear
is so loud
that i’ll write about something
i don’t understand
and offend
or embarrass
[others/myself in that order]
and rather than trying
and learning
i hide
and hide harder
and hide longer
and hide farther into myself
just wanting
wanting
wanting
to write
but never doing any of it in sight.
yesterday’s worries
turn to today’s realities
and mostly we feel silly
for so damn much anxiety
kipventures 