having the resources
to act out,
but not to actually achieve
the help that you need.
having the words to express
exactly what you need,
but still no resources
that actually
help.
society has progressed
somewhat,
but not to the extent that
everyone, everyone needs/deserves/requires.
it is [is it] a viscous cycle
sometimes
i need to remind myself
that i needn’t set out to change minds
when i write from my own soul
no certain goal in my mind
that’s when others’ are impacted
and yes, sometimes, changed
[but what if the mind i need to change
is my own?]
i don’t understand
how everyone isn’t a poet —
we live in words every day,
as long as we are connecting
with another human,
more often than not
it is through
words
words means talking
jabbering
messaging
writing
yelling
ordering
requesting
helping
explaining
informing
sometimes even thinking
and pondering
and reading
for fun
we live in the world of words —
we deal with them day in and day out;
unless you don’t think in them,
and don’t see another soul all day long,
or work/play/study/learn in a
physical environment
[dance/sport/fight-type-place/
physical labor/
or dealing with animals],
you are probably sitting in words
all day
every day
i think we’re all poets
anyway
trying
to be writing
with music playing
(words wording up the place)
(but such good words
you know?)
my focus is split
(even more than usual)
and i can’t reread what i’ve already written
to see if it flows
spits
fits and starts
start me towards a real poem
one of these days
two of these days
three four, that’s all i need
to concentrate on one solid slam
of a poem written down
picked up
spat out
at an open mic
or recorded for those who truly see me
every week
(i miss that)
(i feel weak for missing that)
(but there’s no need to self-judge—
you’ve done that far more than enough)
and the most interesting part
of writing
with words
flowing behind my mind
is that i find myself rhyming with the phrasing i’m hearing
rather than the phrases i’m writing
and i don’t know if any of this
will make any sense
but i’m kinda digging
this
split-focus
un-re-read
rhyming with words you won’t hear
if you’re just reading this poem here
kinda vibe
proud and prideful
are two different words
(though some would have you believe
one is simply the
incorrect version
of the other)
but proud is something to be proud of,
that lovely feeling of seeing something you’ve created
come to fruition
watching a person you love
accomplish their dreams
warm and fuzzy
not a sinful emotion in sight
proud
prideful is the negative version of proud
the pompous, pushy platitudes
pretentiously ostentatious
delusions of grandeur
but in a way that will never be
taken down a peg
this one’s sinful
prideful
i don’t know fully why
this concept appeared to me
this morning
during my poetry time
but it’s something i needed to get out
and here it is
for anyone else
to see
when words are your art form
and you have trauma that takes away
the memory centers for language retention
what does that mean for
everything?
find sure footing
feel no floating
establish boundaries
no barriers
to your creativity
with only words
~~~
i did it
i performed
and this poem would be so much better
if i’d written it that
(or the next)
day
but i have to say
the feelings
of musical theatre magics
are starting to sneak up on me
again
(and i’m really unsure
how i feel about
that)
~~~
staying up
until midnight
to give the pup
the pill she needs
to not be in pain
all night long
but for me
for my mind
i probably should have been asleep hours ago…
i have
so many
so much
works
words
on the page
inside the screen
swimming through my head
it’s a wonder
i haven’t lost
all sense
and sensibility
awareness
and awakeness
sanity
and sanitary
self-hood
selfishness
would be writing
only about me
(oops)
but i guess
it’s better
than not having art
around
everywhere
right?
i can feel you
just past my fingertips
lightly guiding my time
here
and i wonder if you
hear me when
i talk to
you
~~~
language
is a slippery slope
a slow burn to
bonfire blaze
flames
licking the sides
of a place
you once called
home
language
and manipulation of it
is spending years
decades even
trying to find
the perfect word or phrase
for every situation/
meaning/
feeling
until you realize
language will never be enough
so you just do what you gotta
until the day when something
comes close enough
that it gives you
a shadow of
that feeling
language
is my art form
and when i’ve done it right
it paints pictures without a canvas,
tells stories sans narratives,
brings others into a close embrace
without ever
getting
near
and for someone who despises words
and their limitations
as much as i do,
i sure hold language dear.
~~~
is it time?
time to prose it up
again?
my fingers now type
automatically
in stanzas
(could i even go back
to straight narrative
if i tried?)
these poems might not be
exactly
what i’m trying to say,
but damn is it closer than any
‘stream of consciousness’
over-writing
will get me.
i have so much to say
(otherwise, how would i write a poem
a day
for a whole damn year?)
but so much of my time is spent
figuring out
in words
what exactly i’d like to say
and then
overthinking
how someone might
misconstrue my sentences
so i nitpick
and pick out
word
by word
by punctuation
by phrasing
adding extra notes
to prevent
misunderstanding
even though i understand
not everyone understands
where i’m coming from
and not everyone wants to
truly
listen
and not everyone
will read my words
so carefully
delicately
chosen
and not everyone
has the same associations
with words
and things
as i do
but i still
hover
over my buffet of words
hoping to make art
out of language
hoping to create meaning
where once there was nothing
but i spend so much time
figuring out how to say things
that sometimes i forget
what i was trying to say
in the first place.
kipventures 