not feeling
anything
(writing
listing
poetry-ing)
was i this
lost
this time
last
year?
~~~
trying
to writing
with songs with words
we’ll see how this goes
~~~
was music all i needed
for me to feel like
this is a real morning???
poetry about poetry
September 26, 2022
is that
actually
what i’m doing
when i write
and post
my poetry?
i’m fitting myself
into each word
and phrase
and whichever one
comes closest
to revealing the true
me
is the one that meets
The Void
of the interwebs?
could be,
could be…
September 18, 2022
how am i
so good at hinting
in poetry–
‘whining the whole night’
an indication
of no rest/
stressful sleep/
loud noises/
what exhaustion comes
the morning after/
etc.
but i can’t just show
and not tell/
indicate
and not explain/
let the reader
figure it out
in fiction
why???
September 14, 2022
when i show friends
these words
there is an unspoken trust
and an irrational fear
the trust is to read
the fear is that they
have read
but the fear is also
of breaking of trust
that i am still somehow
too much
and not enough
too many poems
not enough time
in our society
that has no reason or rhyme
for when you’re allowed to just sit
and ponder poetry
and when you have to be hustling
because with self-care culture
relaxation has become another side hustle
and being in the moment
is simply a competition
to see who does it
‘right’
but i digress
and am getting ahead of myself
(or really, beside,
because i’m not sure where this poem
was trying to align itself
to begin with)
whenever i show
a friend
a loved one
this here poetry blog
i am both terrified
that they’ll read it
and terrified
that they won’t
maybe i should publish
the first year
just so new folks
have context
for the rest of this
craziness
August 21, 2022
words melt in my mind
from time to time
thinking them in dusk
in witching hour wants
and needing to write them out
but feeling like that would
break the spell
to spell out too much
to identify in analytic hours
so they simply
melt
become part of me
where they always were
to begin with
it seems
and maybe that’s the lesson
that’s to be earned and learned:
the words neither exist outside of me
nor are fully lost internally
they’re always there with me
as is my power
my connection
my rhythm and rhyme scheme and
spirituality
it just takes a little bit longer for myself
to see.
for where are these words and patterns
and rhymes and smatterings
of slammings be coming from
if not
inside?
August 6, 2022
someday
i’d like to write
like the words were
rolling off my tongue-
tied to find the perfect
letter/syllable/sound/
the pound-ing in my ear
shifting from
pain and pressure
to a rhythm underneath
every
word
every
word
every
word
i say
July 30, 2022
does writing
get easier
the more i do it?
no.
does it at least get
more
intuitive?
no.
ok, but does it
seem like
it’s part of me,
like i could finally call myself
a ‘writer’
after writing
every single morning
since early 2020/
after finishing
a first draft
of a whole novel/
after keeping up
with this
daily poetry blog
for 470+ days?
kind of…?
July 16, 2022
my brain
is not retaining
a track this
morning
and i’m worrying
and resting
all at
once
but the flow
comes and goes
and i have no way to
figure out what
is happening
and where
it is
go–
ing
July 1, 2022
in the mornings
i am coming into my own
and i write
and i write
and i say
very little
during the day
i am observing all my own
and i think
and i think
and i write
very little
at night, before sleep
my mind analyzes
everything on its own
and i ponder
and i prepare
and i write masterpieces
in my mind
but i really write
not at all
and in the morning
it’s gone.
June 30, 2022
i can feel you
just past my fingertips
lightly guiding my time
here
and i wonder if you
hear me when
i talk to
you
~~~
language
is a slippery slope
a slow burn to
bonfire blaze
flames
licking the sides
of a place
you once called
home
language
and manipulation of it
is spending years
decades even
trying to find
the perfect word or phrase
for every situation/
meaning/
feeling
until you realize
language will never be enough
so you just do what you gotta
until the day when something
comes close enough
that it gives you
a shadow of
that feeling
language
is my art form
and when i’ve done it right
it paints pictures without a canvas,
tells stories sans narratives,
brings others into a close embrace
without ever
getting
near
and for someone who despises words
and their limitations
as much as i do,
i sure hold language dear.
~~~
is it time?
time to prose it up
again?
my fingers now type
automatically
in stanzas
(could i even go back
to straight narrative
if i tried?)
these poems might not be
exactly
what i’m trying to say,
but damn is it closer than any
‘stream of consciousness’
over-writing
will get me.
kipventures 