it’s always so strange
writing in the nighttime
everyone around me already asleep
it feels like a secret
i may get to keep
unlike the morning writing times
where it flows from me
and into the ether/the void/the endless space that is the internet
those secrets i always
let
go
[and i think they may still be going]
grey skies and
drip drops on window panes and
the perfect day to nap your stress away
and
the perfect evening to be lulled into deep deep sleep
~~~
evening pages
much much later than normal poetry time
[am i just doing this
to say that i did it?]
[isn’t that all life is anyway?]
~~~
i think
three
poems is enough poems
for such a late late night
poem-writing-time
once again i’m
writing in my bed while i
feel a little dread from
the world around me but
my cat is purring and
my dog is sighing and
my kip is working and
i suppose i’ll give tomorrow a go
evening posting
evening writing
evening time in bed
cuddling
and creating
and falling asleeping
[it’s nice when the whole family’s here]
it’s wild
the nighttime writing
so different from the morning
but still so much the same
night writing
no longer the default
no longer the place at
which i’ll
stop
and ponder
and get stuck in the mud of my mentally ill mind
come find me in the sun
come find me in the morning
come find me when the day has just begun
because night writing
is no longer
my home
kipventures 