i should have known
i’d swing the far reaches of the pendulum
the opposite way
going from
‘everyone must know my name
or i’m an ultimate failure’
to
‘if i’m known, my peace is unprotected;
and i’d rather stay at home and be safe’
[i suppose it’s not the wildest swing
known to humankind
but it sure does feel…
extreme]
kip playing with music
a whole set up here at our
kitchen table
and something in me wants to create
is it music?
am i ready to hear my own voice
echoing back from me
via vocoder at least?
or am i more in the physical scheme
and want to cut and trim and sew and see
what kind of creation i can make with
my own two hands
or am i finally ready to write that book
i’ve been threatening to write
forever and a half
or is it the video series
or a play
or silly skits
on social media
[probably not that last one
if my mental health is any key
or indication, having done so well
these past few months
without
that curse looming over me
via my phone…]
[who knows]
[who knows]
sitting down to write
and not feeling the immediate
“i have to eat”
“i have to use the restroom”
“i have to do anything other than
write right now”
and i don’t know what to do with that
how to use it —
all the possibilities are before me
spread out
mapped and tangled and crumpled from
viewing but disuse
and i simply want to write
something
something
something
to make myself feel
like i’ve used my
one wild and wonderful brain
constantly feeling on a precipice
of the world burning
of my own superstardom
of our own government disintegrating
of my writing something inviting and entrancing
to my own
senses
but i think,
at least for my own cliffs’ edges,
i cannot wait for the feeling of falling —
i need to just
jump
i have such a mind for some kind of
metaphorical simile-esque allegorical writing
right now, but the actual writing brain
isn’t really thinking at the moment, so i
suppose i’ll just take down my desires and
re-evaluate in the morning
[or the next morning]
[or the next next morning]
but i wish i had a wish
that could come true
and i’d be
satisfied
do i have writer’s block
or does writer’s block have me
in a chokehold
from which i’ll never be released
do i have writer’s block
or is writer’s block my best frenemy
stalking me
fighting
and making up
and i keep them around for…
…for what?
do i have writer’s block
or is my whole life a lie
based on wanting to write
but never knowing how or when or why
or even if i really should
so i just
rush back
into writer’s block’s arms
do i have writer’s block
or are these excuses
to keep me from writing out
my whole soul?
j’ai espère que
je pouvais penser
en français
i’m fairly certain that is incorrect
damn close to gibberish
but the sentiment still stands
i wish i wish i wish
i could think
in french
maybe i could understand and speak it better
then
[was french the language my Mom studied in school?]
[could we have practiced together
if life didn’t suck so hard
in 2001?]
i scroll
and scroll
and scroll and scroll and scroll
and avoid looking at messages
because my soul aches with each plea
and i haven’t figured out yet
how to do
anything
really
the overwhelming ache
of knowing strangers’
wants
and needs
and their own aches
and feeling hopeless
and helpless
even while knowing
individuals cannot save everyone —
it is companies and economies
and governmental systems
that keep those in want
wanting,
and keep those in the place of
being able to give
here
and there
stuck
in overwhelm…
fuck capitalism.
where is our revolution
of kindness?
kipventures 