a whole ass essay
in poem-form
that’s how i carve out what i’m thinking
what my soul has been saying
in non-words for decades
and i still don’t think the language is all there
nor the concepts fully categorized
but each poem is a start
an opening door to somewhere
or someone
with maybe a little more
understanding
[but only if i share it]
december is really hitting me like
a ton of bricks
being transformed quickly into feathers
[i still have some bruises, and some pokes,
but all in all it’s the suffocating stuffing that’s
hitting me rather than the pounding of existential pressure, so
at least that’s…
different]
what is this
existential nihilism that gossip gives me?
like the minute i’m not
part of the story
and instead invested in the lives of others
my own becomes ghosted
to the point of fading
out from the prime material plane
what use is my spirit
if the flame of my life
heats no one else’s hands?
[these are some silly metaphors
and even sillier phrasing for
a moment today when i experienced
true surprise at my own dealing]
not feeling the morning page poetry
this morning
but that doesn’t mean
i won’t do it
i mean
i continue to do this
every
single
morning
whether i’m in the mood or not
just to have something to do
just to have a habit to latch onto
just to have some proof
to say
‘i was here, i had thoughts and feelings and insights, too’
and maybe someone will read them soon
and maybe someone will read them in hundreds of years
and maybe
because they’re all digital
they’ll disappear into the ether
but
maybe the ether will get a kick out of all these poems
and they and the void can talk about me
behind my back
when i’m long long long gone
drinking coffee
to stave off depression
to stave off existentialism
to stave off the dread
that invades my very being
[but it actually helps the anxiety along
which isn’t great
so there’s that…]
time passing
too swiftly
to get me
pumped
about any one event or even one day
i need now to look forward to
a weekend
a whole month
a big big change in scenery
[but the tiniest/
eensy weensiest/
minutest little things
still bring my whole mood
down
down
down
so what’s that about?]
how much of me is my poetry
and how much of me is
not?
the disappointment i feel in my own government
in my own daily interaction with the people of this country
or even the world
maybe i should start writing fiction more
just to be able to be around the people i enjoy
and in spaces where i’m not
constantly hounded by the existential depression of
“this could be so much better
but it just
isn’t”
keep on writing
keep on finding
what little things are left to find
in this world/state/city/life
and maybe, one day, someone else will want to read what you have to say
existentialism
is hitting me hard
today
and i can never get away
(do i ever even
try
to get away?)
kipventures 