i’ve been feeling the draw
to compose my own stories
worlds
universes
but that’s the extent to which
this emotion/inspiration has taken me
just the desire
not the inspiration
not the story
not the need
just
the vibe
[but i think i need a little more than
a vibe
to convince this maybehd brain
to actually
do it]
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]
if only i had written poetry
when i was a tumblr grrlie
i think i would have
killed on that platform
[eventually]
poems
looking back on other poems
are apparently what my poems
had in store for me today
i’d love to get lost in a poem
[again?]
jumping off the ledge
of a blank sheet
of digital paper
just to be carried along
for the ride
on a subject matter
or an issue at hand
or even a feeling
flowing freely
from word to word
metaphor to simile
alliteration to experimentation
with each line getting longer and longer
or shorter and
shorter
or displaying all my creativity out in such a way
even i have to say
“hey, this one’s worth reading/
worth saying/
worth sharing”
but recently
i’ve only had the desire,
not the subject,
not the flow
to go
and get completely
lost
in a poem
sitting kips
perching cats
lazing puppies
lofi beats
typing fingers
purring felines
windy fans
buzzing electricity
and caffeined beverages
someday i’ll be able to stand up again
and do some more morning things
but for now, this cat is keeping me sitting
so i’ll continue writing
for as long as she needs
my lap
every now and then i get scared
off from sharing this poetry blog because
what if my best poems are behind me
and those i invite to read only see now and upcoming
and never ever see the good stuff?
shall i write in silence
or to the music of the a/c unit
as it strains its last legs
against this most recent heat wave
[will these legs last the next heat wave?
the rest of the summer?
into next year?
forever?]
all these scraps of songs
portions of poems
i’ve written in fits and starts
bursts of energy
of creativity
of enlightened states of being
just to fizzle out
after one verse
one chorus
one instance
of what i truly want to say
and have nowhere to go
no how-to-end-it
no place to place my hat up on the wall and say
“i’m satisfied with my words”
morning pages
in the evening
as the fireworks
sparkle and pop
boom and bang
shatter and static
and startle the puppy
awake
kipventures 