for the past few days
i’ve been looking more forward
to the winter holidays
than halloween
and i don’t know what that makes me
except maybe
just wanting
to feel
cozy
for the past few days
i’ve been looking more forward
to the winter holidays
than halloween
and i don’t know what that makes me
except maybe
just wanting
to feel
cozy
how much of me is my poetry
and how much of me is
not?
driving past places
i’ve driven past
hundreds of times
and to see so many
unchanged
still there
on that road
made me feel
almost like i’m unchanged
and i’m still the me
from five years ago
living in madison
living for the now
and the potential
to make it as an actor
in nyc
what was i placed on this planet to be?
stress
and apprehension
and it not feeling like
an actual opening
and the stories we tell ourselves
about ourselves
when i tell myself these stories
it’s to try to solidify
who i am
because i have no idea
i have no plan
~~~
does one good line
make a poem?
is this my style/my curse?
~~~
my poems are making little to no sense to me
this morning
but i’m still writing them
i’m still dilligently typing
words and phrases as they come
hoping to find some meaning
some
time
soon
pretend
you’re a regular human
with normal wants and desires
fears and loves
and then think about your situation
but that’s just acting, isn’t it?
i’ve spent so much time in my head
with the what-ifs
and the ‘how would i play that
if i were in that
situation?’
and the
trying to observe my own responses —
but what if my responses are so out of the ordinary
that i’ve been trying to act
with my own feelings
in a way that is
disingenuous
to the human condition?
[i know, i know,
i’m human,
but damn, does it not feel that way
a whole damn lot of the time]