i sit here
at my keyboard
wishing to hold the solstice
in higher regard
wanting a celebration
a consistent practice
an honoring of some kind
and i know,
i know,
that i have the ability to do so–
i have the calendar
and adult wherewithal
and resources
to make this happen–
but i feel trapped
by the depression
that anticipates
the worst
of time flowing by
instead of celebrating
our earth still turning
my lungs still breathing
our days still day-ing
until they
no longer
do
it’s already
the middle of the month
how does
time
go by this
much
i wish i could have the discipline
of folks who literally write every day,
who get up at the exact same time
and write for the exact same amount of hours
and never miss a day
in their 30, 40, 60, 90-year career
i wish i could write/live like i’m running out of time
i think the problem is i do.
but i feel it in the depths of my skin/soul/teeth
where the reminder just brings me to my knees
i see the futility
of years
of words
of works
and it petrifies
and paralyzes
every piece of my creativity
so where’s my legacy?
i feel as though
the month is almost over
(though there is still plenty of plenty of time)
i feel as though
i’m running out of time
(even though
i’m still young
vibrant
virile[?]
alive)
i feel as though
i’m only half living
(even though
i’m more in tune
with being
a living person
than i have
in years)
i feel as though
i’ll never connect
with other human beings
(even though
the humans i want to connect with
align more with cryptid
than anything else)
and i feel like
i’m not allowed to identify as cryptid,
as anything other than man/woman
boy/girl
alive/dead
artist/not
driven/giving up
even though
the world
is filled
with
shades of
neither/and
~~~
maybe
some creepy/Disparition/music
will calm my spooky soul
and make me feel more like myself
~~~
my brain isn’t fully functional
fully awake
and i already feel i have
enough poems for two today
so will i write a third?
[everything in threes]
when the ultimate goal is not, necessarily, posting
the goal is to exercise my writing
each morning
every morning
every day
write at least one full poem
that i’m proud of
(or, at least, that i can look at and call a ‘full poem’)
so when i’m feeling so out of sorts
when i am uncertain where myself/body/mind/spirit
actually is
i can write and write and write and write
until
i find myself once again.
but what happens
when the more i write
the farther away i feel?
(am i just relying on the house
to fix everything?)
(that’s a lot of pressure
on one building…)
(at least i still have this cat
draped over my arms,
tail flapping without breeze,
purrs echoing in my soul,
claws digging into my skin
as a constant reminder
that she probably loves me,
or at least sees me as comfort
which is
honestly
pretty neat.)
what is with
these weeks of summer
streaming by in the goddamn blink of an eye?
(and how many more will i have have have to endure
until i finally find it in me to accept
the inevitability of time?)
the never-ending trap
of Time
growing up it seems to go by so slowly
long summer nights
endless school days
waiting for santa claus
waiting to perform
waiting to hear back about important news
but somewhere around teenage years
it starts to slide
and no longer is there more time than you know what to do with
but it starts downhill and seems to snowball
out of control
days slip past you in the blink of an eye
(how has it been a decade since i went to college?)
and especially for someone like me
who has very little tracking in my internal clock about time
who could easily talk to a best friend from years gone by
and just be excited that we have even more life stories to talk about
it’s hard to quantify
where those years all went
because to me
they seem
to just
be…
gone
kipventures 