maybe
maybe
maybe
if i write enough
poetry
i’ll write enough
random rhymes
to come into a song
some time
and perform the me
i’d like to be
someday
somehow
some way
[but def not today]
maybe
maybe
maybe
if i write enough
poetry
i’ll write enough
random rhymes
to come into a song
some time
and perform the me
i’d like to be
someday
somehow
some way
[but def not today]
skip days of writing
write while others are speaking
maybe the focus isn’t what i need,
but the divided attention,
to complete my goals
with creativity
here is pride
a thing i feel every now and then
and today, small town america
helped me feel
proud once again
what a bizarre happenstance
i don’t feel like writing
but i don’t feel like not writing
like i have things to say
but i’m not aching to say them
like all my past lives have caught up with me
and instead of blocking them out
they came in
and we had tea
and chatted till they had to leave
and some of the conversation was important
and some of it was fluff
and some of it got out
what i’m constantly trying to get out
and the emotional hangover hasn’t caught up with me
yet
but i can feel it approaching
i can feel it encroaching
i can feel it coming
for me
interesting when i write a poem
and can feel the subject matter/concept
has something there, but that the poem itself
is a rough rough rough first draft, like i know
i’ll have to re-write and maybe even re-re-write
but the subject
and a few lines
of this first try
are usable
and i don’t feel the overwhelming failure
that a ‘not good enough’ poem usually brings me,
because this is simply an opportunity
to write it out better/more accurate/in a way that everyone
might
identify with me and understand.
do i really
truly
actually
need someone to tell me what to do with my life?
[especially because, when told, i struggle being beholden to other people
and end up resisting every step of the way]
why does my brain make no sense to me?
if only i ever found a time
when i thought my mind was organized
but as it stands
and as it be
the organization of my mind is cacophony
i am struggling this morning
and that’s ok
that’s ok
that’s ok
i don’t need to churn out perfect poems
and mind-bending perspectives
each and every day
one poem to post
simplistic and chill
as these other ideas percolate
for another morning poem time
and i can let myself be imperfect
i can let myself be imperfect
i can let myself be imperfect
i can.
outside
writing morning poetry
in the afternoon
listening to the sweet melodies
of trains and planes and crows above me
and the puppy pacing to keep up with everything that needs investigating
i do kind of wish we would have spent more time outside
before the weather turned from mildly warm
to HOT
and this isn’t even the hottest it’ll be
not even close
but
we’ll deal with the sweat
and embrace the sun
[or hide underneath the sail of shade]
and let the puppy play with us
and keep the cat
well hidden
inside
from afternoon
outside time
sometimes i hide inside myself
feeling like my feelings are infiltrators
unwelcome guests that i can block
out
like as long as i don’t think about a thing
there’s no possible way it can affect me
and the effects won’t come effecting
until i open my door and let them in
invite them to come, when i’m more levelheaded
and can see emotions from a more logical standpoint
but i should know better
about all of
that.