my brain started the day
just craving sleep
it moved on to listing/spreadsheeting/
organizational breathing deep—-
the calm that comes from analytical endeavors
and i assumed that would negate the need for poetry
but my surprise rises in perpetuity
as i spit rhymes and find lines i didn’t know i
craved
with the very soul of me
i’ve expressed so much in so little time
in so very few lines
and it’s not even 9…
sitting here
at the corner of my table—
the table i write at daily
but slightly offset
from most mornings—
writing about depression
and despair
and i see a heart
lightly etched into
this table
that came to us
secondhand
the heart could be a human marking
it could be a grain of the wood
it could be a scratch that so perfectly emulated
the hearts we draw
complete happenstance
but i find it
both sanguine
and sad
that while writing poetry
meant to allow
myself to feel those lulls of utter
darkness
i glance over
and see
a symbol
of hope
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
i am in a mood where
sitting still by a blank document
one arm on the table/laptop/keyboard
one in my lap
no movement
just thought
is far more comforting
(and possibly productive)
than churning out poem after poem
~~~
and yet i will write
because that is what i do
and that seems to be my calling
(at least as of late)
and sometimes one needs to have a moment of stillness
before capturing that stillness in art
(if we just try to capture it without fully feeling it
that art is meaningless
wouldn’t you agree?)
~~~
the droopy eyelids
hover over my eyes
laden with sleep
and a few days of tech week
and i am contemplating writing
contemplating huddling back under the sheets
contemplating at least a few moments of peace
before the craziness of today begins
writing in bed
is interesting
especially when we’ve established
so many constant things
about writing at the table
downstairs//
but this morning
i think we both needed
something
either a right away poetry day (me)
or a change of space/place/and pace (kip)
or
simply a nicer/slower start to the morning (both of us)
but it now
doesn’t really feel like
morning any more
when i write
i write at a table
but i don’t use the table
(except to hold my morning coffee)
i slide down in my chair
and lift my legs to the other across
and lay my laptop across my lap
cross one foot over the other
and write until my legs or butt falls asleep
or until my terrible posture hurts my back
or until my arms start to get sore
from low-key holding my laptop on my criss-crossed lap
and somehow this works for me
though i can’t help but imagine
a me
where i sit properly
feet fully reaching the floor
posture great
writing without pain sneaking its way in
and wonder if
i’d write
better
longer
if i sat like
a regular person
~~~
the cat gallops upstairs
chasing invisible ghosts
and singing the song of her kin
and at least she can amuse herself like this
for hours on end
while we break our evening’s fast with coffee and poetry and song
the cat’s harmony never quite fitting with whatever we play
but that’s why we love it (and her) so
~~~
i would like to write a letter to my grandmama some time today
because she constantly writes me lovely greetings
‘how are you’s’ and ‘here’s been my day’
and i love them so much.
and i’ve told her,
but i know the reciprocal is just as loved as the appreciation
and she literally said she wonders how we’re doing
so i suppose that’s what is on my agenda
(other than circus)
today
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
my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood
but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done
~~~
but is that
so bad
a thing?
~~~
i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life
how could i tell another’s?
capitalism
ruining even the most productive
of mornings
~~~
frustrated
distracted
hungry
but not yet ready
what a morning
~~~
banal tasks
take
less mental energy
but
when a sudden need
for that focus arrives
it’s quite jarring
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
kipventures 