yesterday it was so easy to write
and write and write a whole ass poem
in one sitting
i just sat down
and did it
and this morning, the struggle is the
realest of real
and i can’t seem to even think of a subject matter
to write about, much less actually
write
it
and i
am simply adding word by word
by
word
instead of going with the flow of the poem
thinking line
and stanza at a time
and i’m
simply
frustrated
at myself
writing about nothing
January 13, 2026
trying to write out
something
while my mind is reeling with
everything
but somehow i can think of absolutely
nothing
to try to write out to say…
January 8, 2026
maybe time to write
maybe time
to
not
but all i know is
i have tea
beside me
and music
coming from this apparatus
on which i write these words
and i could write for another hour and twenty minutes
or i could
not
and it wouldn’t make much of a difference
for anyone other than
myself
but for myself
it could make
all the difference
in the world
January 6, 2026
sometimes i write things
and i can follow my own train of thought
like “ah, i see this scent/song/experience
reminded me of this other one
and now i gotta work backwards
through poetry
to find all the connections, but they’re there
i see them
clear
as
day”
and then there are times where i’ll just random write words
and even then, sometimes, the underlying meaning
or at least the underlying inspiration
is right there for me to see
clearly
and yet
there are other times
[like very very recently]
where i’ll write a thing
and it’s like my fingers had a mind of their own
and i’ll look at the poem
and think to myself
“what the actual fuck?”
“where in the multiverse did that come from?”
“am i even in the same body as these appendages of mine???”
but i suppose that’s what makes poetry
kinda fun
sometimes
December 26, 2025
i’m not really feeling writing
but i’m not really feeling
not writing
either
guess i’ll just
meander about this document
with words
[because that’s not writing
but it’s definitely not
not writing
right?]
December 12, 2025
i wonder
if i whiled away my morning hours
finding the rhymes
and alliterations with time,
if i’d feel more
connected/
more a part of/
more in line
with my silly morning poems —
if i seriously sat still
thinking of the perfect line
the perfect rhyme
the perfect kind of poem to
express
and impress
and decompress
and perhaps then
i’d force my poems on others
[but, as it stands now, i can only make that happen
for like half to two thirds of a full poem,
and then i let go the pretense, and get back to the words
that just make sense
with my morning brain]
November 8, 2025
writing while
breakfast is on its way
writing while
thinking about the coffee i’m unable to drink
writing while
my phone is struggling to charge
writing while
picking dog fur off of my clothes
writing while
haunted by all the laundry i need to do
today
writing while
only able to picture
the fantasy of potential nap(s) i could have later on
writing while
so many other things are
swiftly swerving in and out of my brain
and i can’t seem to concentrate
on the writing part of
writing
while
October 1, 2025
turn off the brain
turn on the writing
turn on the morning
the focus and the words
that mean nothing
that mean everything
if i don’t think too hard
if i don’t think hard enough
if i simply stop thinking
maybe these poems
may make sense
eventually]
April 30, 2024
the drive to write is strong —
but what to write about
never seems to come along —
like i’m sitting at a type-writer
or a pen and paper notebook
and i am hovering above what
could very well be brilliant
imagery/alliteration/metaphor
and simile and allegory all
stuck together, but instead my
pen/finger tip just shudders,
the ache of keeping it up
too long as i wait, the heaviness
of the potential i feel in my
body mind and soul too much
too much for one little
writing utensil/blank screen
to hold, so instead i write
about nothing, i write about
wanting to write, i write over
and over again meta poems that
never seem to come to any sort
of fruition or resolution or
conclusion, and i continue
to write and write and write
and here i am again…
January 7, 2024
math jazz
leaves your mind
expecting
exactly
what it
isn’t
~~~
i’ve written so much
of
nothing this morning
and
i can’t seem to stop
nor
do i feel satisfied with anything i’ve done
so
i guess i’ll keep writing and writing and writing
until
i feel some sort of closer closure, somewhere.
~~~
do i not want to review my older works because i think they’ll be worse,
or do i not want to delve deep because i know myself and my tendency
to get all wrapped up, bundled in the blanket of the past, wondering
what if what if what if, until i find myself unable to experience the
presence of the
present
moment
?
kipventures 