at least i
can somehow make my
direst terrible feelings
fly
into beautiful words
and verses of pure emotion
while i sit by
and feel it
feel it’s
overwhelming me
daily
but in a few days/weeks/months maybe
hopefully
i’ll look back and think of it as art
only took five whole days
to get back into the swing of this
writing
and feeling good about my writing/
confident that i have something to say
and the ability to say it
in a unique and clever way.
i still am probably not as good as i want to be
but maybe i’m close to
how good i
think
i am
sometimes
you just have to write
some nonsense
before the words
start to
make some sense
in your body
(in your brain)
ever write poetry
with a rhyme scheme in your mind
from an un-written line,
one you decided wasn’t worth the fight/
the force of putting it in,
but the next line rhymes so fittingly
that you insert it just so —
and when you read the flow
you still speak it as though
that first line is still there
(you just don’t say it out loud)
and it all fits together
with phrases in your mind —
and you wonder
if a reader
who isn’t just you
could feel that it flows,
even though the flow
may not be as obvious
as it is to you…
anyone else do that too?
stop writing
for purpose
stop writing
for audience
stop writing
for rules
and structure
and rhyme scheme
and
just write
for expression
for emotion
for you
for you
[for me]
[i write for me
let that be what it will be]
the interesting thing
about this way of writing
poetry
(and prose, i suppose)
is that flowing from the fingertips
is actually the most apt analogy—
i don’t sit here
pondering each line
especially coming up with each
rhyme
instead i’m writing
and writing
and typing as the words come to me
sometimes before even
i have any sort of language inside my mind
but the words keep flowing/
like little rivers from brain/
to my hands/
crafting a poem
a story
a something
and not knowing if it’s good or not
but at least
knowing
that it
flows
i have so much more i want to say
but my brain won’t focus itself in a way
that i can parse through
what i’ve said yet
and not
so i suppose i’ll wait until tomorrow
(or maybe just until this day
is through)
and try again.
usually
i use morning page time
to write what’s bouncing around in my mind
and smooth out the edges
of the frantic thoughts and premises
and write for an audience
once i’m done
parsing
ponderings
but this morning
i’m just continually
digging through
my mind’s soil
and seeing what might grow
and i don’t know
if any of my work is readable
much less digestible
but better to let indigestion take hold
than not have anything to show
from such a
productive
pensive
morning
right?
planning and preparing
are nothing when it comes to
insurance
human fallibility
and the twists of the fates
~~~
i use squiggles
[tildes]
to break the momentum
from one poem
to the next
but only in a batch of three
because formatting in devices these days
is far too variable
for a whole line
so i rely on my
three
little
squiggles
to [hopefully] signify
to both reader and writer
that this poem is over–
re-ready yourself
for a whole new
poem
beginning.
~~~
lost in the depths of a book
so visceral
so immersive
so taking-me-along-for-the-ride
i can’t decide
if this one is more stressful than the first
but all of these ninths
give me some sort of curse
of caring
and staring
long distances as i listen to them
audiobooks carrying me through the star-system
the big house
the river
and i just want to know
what happens next
what happens next
what happens next???
the focus
of today
is failing
whether i write one hundred words
or one
i can’t seem to keep them all in line
with one another
i’m not one to give up
but i am known for knowing
when i’m fighting a losing battle
and maybe it’s simply time
to give myself
a [day’s]
break
kipventures 