usually
i use morning page time
to write what’s bouncing around in my mind
and smooth out the edges
of the frantic thoughts and premises
and write for an audience
once i’m done
parsing
ponderings
but this morning
i’m just continually
digging through
my mind’s soil
and seeing what might grow
and i don’t know
if any of my work is readable
much less digestible
but better to let indigestion take hold
than not have anything to show
from such a
productive
pensive
morning
right?
wake
myself up
with poetry
widen my eyes
with words
pump my veins
with phrases
of soft rhymes
and alliterations
and pick up the pace
of morning
with stanzas of
longing
and beauty
wake
myself up
with poetry
take your moment
meditate
relax
it’s just a morning
like any other morning
no extra stress comparatively
i don’t know why your heart is beating like that
so loud
so loud
but it is what it is
and it is just a morning
so meditate
write
and be here when you’re ready
i know the morning
is here for me
to delve into my
psychology
and think through things
as they may or may not be
but right now it feels
more like a chore
more like a bore
score none and no more
the act of writing
of poetizing
less than appetizing
and i can’t help but feel
like a
fraud
~~~
one more poem
one more verse
simply to make me feel
like i didn’t just waste
an entire block of my morn
writing stupid rhyming poetry
for nothing
for naught
for no one but me
(that’s the only person
actually
for whom this
poetry)
~~~
and writing
as me
as my own self
is so odd
because i’ve spent so much of my life
not knowing
(or straight up hiding)
who i truly was
that i’m uncertain
i’d even know
for sure
now
the not so great part
of having a solid plan
of combining your Morning Experimentations
into
a National Novel Writing Month Experiment
is that
once you combine the collective trauma
of living through a global pandemic
(and the subsequent failures of government and humanity)
with the fact that you wrote every morning
your pain and hopes and losses thereof
and with
the emotional toll of writing poetry
which you do
every morning now
is that
now
you don’t necessarily want to write
your Morning
Poetry
(because you have just
catharted
all over the computer screen
about a situation
we are still
very much
in)
a break
a gap
for multiple days
but
i’m not worried
in the way
i have been
because i know
i’m here
and i have things to say
no matter
what
~~~
re-writing history
is the way i deal with
days i couldn’t deal with
the morning pages
or mid-afternoon meditation
or evening ponderings…
simply take the time machine
of your blogging schedule
and post
in the past
(it’s surprisingly
easy)
~~~
(any more to say?)
[anything else to think?]
{or is writing
still coming back
into focus
after a few
days?}
i
don’t
wanna
do it
i don’t
want
to morning pages
i don’t
want to write
this morning
i don’t
want to be forced
or force myself to be
creative
fake inspiring
inspired
by the cold outside
(or inside for that matter)
by my sleepy eyes
or exhausted brain
or heart that has yet to gain
any sort of strength
(they say the heart is a muscle
but how do you exercise it
to be more open
more loving
more child-like
more you?)
i
don’t
wanna do
anything
so instead
i’m writing
about the feeling
and hoping
you’ll understand
too
the two kips
unfocused
in two different ways
someone help someone write something
(sometimes you just need to fumble over words
at each other
making the other person laugh
before you come up with the
perfect plan
and go back to writing
immédiatement)
to be
on the cusp
of knowing who you are
but still fearing the unknowns
of changes
to your
body
mind
and soul
how dare this internalized
trans-phobia,
the lies and terrorizing from the cis-stem,
affect me this deeply
(and in my Pride month, no less!)
~~~
the puppy’s tail pulsates,
swinging wildly back and forth,
as she barely contains her glee
in a well-trained sit;
‘wait’
the cat stares,
meows,
then damn near head-butts the dog
with love,
but still hisses
(instinctually?)
someday
they will
be friends.
~~~
it’s mornings like this
when my mind feels blank
that i wonder if it’s actually good for me
to write
and write
and write and write and write
until i find something to say,
or if it would better serve me
to let the morning go
‘to waste’
and write later in the day
when things have inspired my mind
to think things through
and the creative process
is finally flowing…
what
do you
think?
i take one day off
from writing
in the morning
(though i still thought
in poetry
all day)
and i feel like i haven’t written
in weeks
kipventures 