my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood
but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done
~~~
but is that
so bad
a thing?
~~~
i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life
how could i tell another’s?
quick
quippy
poems
poetry
at its finest
and finest thread of
through line
and fate
and maybe make
the internal rhyme scheme
and alliterative styling
say more
than just
appear
for appearance’s sake
the whole concept of writing
right now
feels egregious
to me
to sit in solemn silence
and ponder grand plans
tiny details
and all between
and simply translate them
to characters in words upon a screen
i don’t know why i
can go from sixty to zero
from brain chattering every day
so much to do, so much more to say
all the previous yesterdays
and then today
be struck
stuck
stagnant
and frustrated
by the whole concept of language
such is the life
and times
and minds
of writers?
some days
you get the poem
and some days
the poem gets you
and other days
you run away from each other
at lightning speeds
and that’s all okay
i write
every morning
to warm up my brain
i write
every morning
to feel a little more awake
i write
every morning
to get the creative juices flowing
i write
every morning
to feel like i’ve accomplished something
i write
every morning
because morning is when i’m at my best
i write
every morning
to continue a streak
because once i set my mind to something
i accomplish it
and i vowed to write every morning
and so i’ll write
every morning
until i feel
i’ve succeeded
(and then maybe move on
to the next hyper-fixation)
i have poems
and concepts
rushing out of me
today
and none of them
are fit
to post
(guess i gotta look at the past)
what good
comes from
writing
about writing?
writing
about poetry?
writing
about waiting
and wanting
to write
so well?
oh yeah!
i wrote
last night
creatively
script-ily
a whole scene
i can do it
i can write
(other than poetry)
but i sure can
still write
a whole bunch
of
poems
~~~
there are things
to do
today
and i’m actually
excited
to do them?
~~~
sad
puppy dog eyes
gazing up at me
as if i could protect her
from everything
i will try, Computer,
i will try
is that
actually
what i’m doing
when i write
and post
my poetry?
i’m fitting myself
into each word
and phrase
and whichever one
comes closest
to revealing the true
me
is the one that meets
The Void
of the interwebs?
could be,
could be…
i think it’s so funny
when people are funny
about their dog’s gender
the dog
doesn’t care
only you care
only you
~~~
but maybe that’s the source
right?
it doesn’t matter what the misgendered person’s gender is
it doesn’t matter how they feel at all
it’s all about the
person
in power—
the parent
or owner
or law maker
am i right?
~~~
experimentation
with imperfection
with writing
without rewriting
with whimsy
and morning brain
and coffee-less veins
and only a little bit
of contemplation
before composition
before posting
again
kipventures 