how do morning pages feel so much better
with my kip sitting across from me
and a cup of cold coffee in my hand
and a cat perched upon my lap
and a puppy underneath my chair
and everything as it is meant to be?
when did i start liking
consistency?
interesting
without music
my brain only half focuses
like it does
with music with words
why does my focus only work on such
strict, specific auditory inputs?
skip days of writing
write while others are speaking
maybe the focus isn’t what i need,
but the divided attention,
to complete my goals
with creativity
interesting when i write a poem
and can feel the subject matter/concept
has something there, but that the poem itself
is a rough rough rough first draft, like i know
i’ll have to re-write and maybe even re-re-write
but the subject
and a few lines
of this first try
are usable
and i don’t feel the overwhelming failure
that a ‘not good enough’ poem usually brings me,
because this is simply an opportunity
to write it out better/more accurate/in a way that everyone
might
identify with me and understand.
i am struggling this morning
and that’s ok
that’s ok
that’s ok
i don’t need to churn out perfect poems
and mind-bending perspectives
each and every day
one poem to post
simplistic and chill
as these other ideas percolate
for another morning poem time
and i can let myself be imperfect
i can let myself be imperfect
i can let myself be imperfect
i can.
if only i knew what i wanted to write about/
if only i didn’t start hundreds of poems
immediately after closing up the morning poetry page/
if only i could access all the unfinished lines in my mind
from last night and prior nights
going back years and decades
and mine them for inspiration for today
now
this morning//
but instead i find myself sitting and staring/
and hoping and despairing/
and writing about writing
and random morning things
[maybe, every few weeks, i should actively make morning poetry
into nighttime poetry
and see what happens
then]
write your morning pages
do your thing
whether it takes an hour or a minute
or a day or a second
it’s there, waiting for you
wanting you to
write
my head is all over the place
which can make for interesting poetry
when i cannot follow one subject all the way through
but fifteen different thoughts have already sped through
my racing brain
but the sleep is also tugging
and i have no way of judging
which direction to go
or how much to write
or let go
or just let it be
as it is
in this mess that it is in
~~~
if i actually followed the stream of consciousness/
the different trains that blast off from
the one station of *my brain*
i still don’t think i’d have words for most thoughts —
‘high speed’ ‘ugh, typing’ ‘that beat’ ‘coffee’ ‘food’ ‘puppies’
none of those words tell a story
in the way i’d want my poetry to express —
how i called it a stream, but i feel like my thoughts are trains
holding all the context for each word within each car
but they blast off like high-speed rail, something i’d love to have in this
fucking country, and sometimes i’m on the train itself, but sometimes i’m left at the station
waiting for all the thoughts to come back to me, eventually
[hopefully whole, with some new passengers/context aboard]
~~~
i feel like the more i write
the worse my poetry ends up
and i don’t know what to do
or how to think
about that.
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…
i’m unaware of what is happening in my mind
i feel like i’m always looking, but never find
what i expect to find
the kind of content, the product, the thing to capitalize upon
the hustle culture
maybe i’m
just meant to be
chill and writing and soft and free
[aren’t we all
meant to be
free?]
kipventures 