perhaps i could make a book
based entirely on my
nonsense poetry
and perhaps it would get published
and perhaps scholars would study it
and wonder of the words i’m putting out there
and what they all mean
together
and i would have to tell them,
with a sorry expression
but still a devilish glint to my eye,
“my apologies, my guy,
it just means
nothing”
[and perhaps that in and of itself
would send the next generation of academics
into a whole new
tizzy]
but, should i want to write a book,
what book should i write?
should i re-write my first ever finished novel?
try to make it less about what i needed to hear
[and say]
at that moment in my life, and instead keep
the characters and their journey
and clean it up a bit
for a more
general
consumption?
should i try to finish up the novel i started
recently
with magic at its core
with a [relatively] scientific explanation
should i create my silly idea for a choose your own adventure novel?
should i write the fairy story of a person writing a fairy story
that they need
[and i probably do, too]
should i instead focus on play-writing?
or putting together a collection of
already written poetry?
i think i want to fall into a novel
like i did five years ago…
maybe that first option
really is
the way
to
go
my mind chases ideas
races miles a second
when there’s nothing to occupy it —
story ideas from every fleeting thought/
a line of a poem repeating and repeating and repeating/
all asking questions of me:
could this concept turn into a play?
could this plot twist be startling enough to entertain?
could this mulling be the next
great
american
novel?
[i gotta say, as exhausting as it is to have all these ideas all the time,
and as disappointing as it is to never remember them when i’m near
pen and paper/screen and keyboard,
it is so much better than the alternative i dealt with
for decades
of every time there was any sort of quiet
and my mind wasn’t 100% occupied
it just told me how much of a horrible, terrible, inhumane person i was
and how i should probably go die
or something…so yeah…would definitely prefer
this
to that]
do i have writer’s block
or does writer’s block have me
in a chokehold
from which i’ll never be released
do i have writer’s block
or is writer’s block my best frenemy
stalking me
fighting
and making up
and i keep them around for…
…for what?
do i have writer’s block
or is my whole life a lie
based on wanting to write
but never knowing how or when or why
or even if i really should
so i just
rush back
into writer’s block’s arms
do i have writer’s block
or are these excuses
to keep me from writing out
my whole soul?
i’ve lost my mind
inside
a well aged mansion
on a first planet from the sun
filled with animate skeletons
and backstabbing
and mystery
and…
i haven’t lost myself in a story in so long
in a world like this one
i feel obsessive
obsessed
and like i want to compress the time between time with my headphones
making excuses to do chores
take walks
just so i can know what the heck is going on
and it feels refreshing
but also like i
wish i could write a story
this immersing
kipventures 