i have had
quite the busy
busy week
and today is the day for
resting
and chores that have been waiting
for at least a week
if not more to
be done
and this may end up being my week
from now until
who knows when
but i’ll keep trucking
i’ll keep doing
until i find myself
trying
something different
[i still want to write more than anything
but i can never think of anything
to actually write
about]
i sit here
pining and whining
and wishing and wanting
to call myself
a writer
and i know
i know
my goodness i know
that i am a writer
as soon as i write
and i sit down every morning
and compose poem
after poem
after poem
but this desire is different
i want to create whole worlds with
the tip of my finger/pen/brain
i want to carry an audience on
a whole-ass journey and lead them
from beginning
to middle
to end
what i’m saying is
i wish to write prose
story
script
screenplay
novel
novella
creative essay
anything
i could even do it in poetry
if it felt right
but all i write
are these tiny windows into my own soul
and morning
while day
and night
i have epics unfolding inside me
and the minute i dedicate
a minute
or hour
or day
to getting it down
on paper/document/screen/anything
my skill with words seems
so
elementary
so
amateurish
so
trying too hard and getting not far at all
and i give up after
a page
a paragraph
a word
but the want
it remains
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
but, should i want to write a book,
what book should i write?
should i re-write my first ever finished novel?
try to make it less about what i needed to hear
[and say]
at that moment in my life, and instead keep
the characters and their journey
and clean it up a bit
for a more
general
consumption?
should i try to finish up the novel i started
recently
with magic at its core
with a [relatively] scientific explanation
should i create my silly idea for a choose your own adventure novel?
should i write the fairy story of a person writing a fairy story
that they need
[and i probably do, too]
should i instead focus on play-writing?
or putting together a collection of
already written poetry?
i think i want to fall into a novel
like i did five years ago…
maybe that first option
really is
the way
to
go
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]
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?
perhaps
in order to avoid the trappings
of first-time writings
[the “mary sue” the self-insertion
the romanticized tragedy
the not-flawed-enough protagonists
and too-flawed antagonists
and cursorily researched science
and all things i’d judge or freeze stagnant
when viewing in my own writing]
i simply need to go after them,
on purpose even,
and indulge.
there is a genre
of media and music and story
where the off-putting shift
from our reality
to something similar
but not quite what we’re used to
is put forth as a sort of comfort
along with being
unsettling
and that is my absolute niche
[but i’d like to create as well as imbibe
sometime
soon]
kipventures 