i wish i saw through poet’s eyes
the beauty of the earth at all times —
but instead i see the pain and despair
and try to beautify that
with impassioned speeches/
or try to find the tiniest spec
of lovely
in a day full of pain/
and make the mundane
beautiful again
though it doesn’t really feel like
poetry
to me
without grand sunsets
or allegories of bees and flowers,
i’m over here trying —
making beauty out of angst
and bubble gum
just write through
the pain and
the loss and
the lost feelings and
the sleepiness and
the exhaustion and
the boredom and
the mundanity and
the distractions and
the battles and
the fight and
when the fight leaves us
for an hour or a day or a year
or so
we can write ourselves
back into the fight
if it means enough to us
[and yes, it means enough
to me]
how come some of my best poems
are those where i turn my
whole brain off?
pretend
for a moment
you don’t know where you came from
or to what you’re going
or even any established rules
about your own identity
or the world at large and little
and you go to craft a poem —
would you know what words to use
would you innately be aware of rules and parameters
poetry has to work around and within
or would you just write what was in your soul
even if the words in your soul had no words at all?
and would that still be poetry?
[i think so]
the simplicity today
is still so simple
it’s not making larger ideas
blossom
in front of my eyes/
it’s making my blood boil and rise
at the fact that i
cannot seem to focus long enough
to make poetry i’m proud of
maybe tomorrow
[maybe even later today]
do past poets
ever view todays’
as cheaters?
“i never had rhyming dictionaries
back in my day…”
“the whole of human knowledge
at your fingertips
and this drivel
is what you come up with???”
good thing
i don’t believe in an afterlife
otherwise
i’d be worried
about generations of past poets behind me
judging my work
instead of simply all of humanity
from now going forward…
interpretation
is 90%
of the poetry game
maybe that’s why i write so bluntly
so obviously
sans metaphor
sans simile
so the interpretation can be
exactly what it was meant to be
[or is this just another example
of me trying to hold on to control
of a thing i really can’t control at all?]
it is kind of wild to me
that art in and of itself
is simply an invitation to
s t r e t c h
any truth we may want to share or inhabit
[any pureness for accuracy
may or may not be
entertaining/
good art anyway
so why not craft reality
to your individual
liking?]
cryptic poems
are no fun
when they’re written for the pure purpose of being obtuse
but cryptic poems
that come fully fleshed
from the depths of your mind
and you had no idea where it came from
or even
what in the world it’s trying to confide
but it’s here
it’s out
in the world
those cryptic poems are okay.
still bizarre to me
that people who do not know me
would want to read my poetry
but i suppose i’ll just keep posting it here
for anyone at all to see
kipventures 