no creative energy
no inspirational flow
no way to know
if this is how it is today
or if i just need to let my imagination
go
~~~
so
i suppose
i’ll write
~~~
a glitch
in the system
a ghost
in my computer
a little spark of the unknown
is everywhere
around us
started three different poems
and the scheme has led me
to perfect rhymes every time
(whether i’ve chosen to write down that path
is another story entirely)
and i feel like
rhyming poetry
is no longer
my own
it is taken over
by expectation
and rules
and it’s no longer my own
it’s no longer my own
(but is a poem
ever
anything to own?)
stuck behind a computer keyboard
when i simply wish i could hook up some sort of cord
to my brain and let it leak poetry
more real/raw/strange/
honesty
might not consistently be
but it’s consistently
me
write
write as if your life
depended on it
write
as if you couldn’t start a whole day
without it
write as if you couldn’t find
your true identity
as a human being
unless you were to
write
write
write as if you just can’t do anything
but
write
~~~
am i actually
naturally
good?
or am i fooling myself
over
and over
and over again?
~~~
does it even matter tho?
if i get satisfaction?
if i feel pleased?
should i even care if anyone else deems it ‘good’
?
if only i could put all my hobbies
and helpfuls
into one basket of poetry—
the focus that comes from embroidery,
the loss of time and self
and feeling of fullness of art
of acting,
the power
and grace
of pulling one’s own body weight
up to an aerial apparatus
and seeing the whole room
spin
just this side of uncontrollably
around me,
and the expression
of my deepest most inner
mind
in a single poem
(or two)
(or three)
this is how you get to know me.
falling asleep
writing music in my mind
what a perfect metaphor
what an inspirational line
the rhyme scheme, incomparable
the tune passionate, flawless,
and i promise to remember it
when my eyes open
once more.
what was it again?
…lost it.
to write songs
tragic
manic
to write words
to sing
again
to write tunes
and times
and make it all rhyme
and why
can’t i
write
songs?
these mornings
these poems
they all slip together
to become something akin to
a giant gentle monster
overwhelming
overshadowing
but still cuddly as anything
(cuddly as me)
and i don’t know if this beast is one
i could ever tame
or if it needs to be free
wild
as uncontrollable
and uncontrolled
as i so desperately want to be
a big sad
an overwhelming wave
of the depression i know best—-
we should be friends by now;
i see them nearly every day,
but their company is always unwelcome
and puts a stop to any idea i had for my day
the worst part
of my particular depression/sadness/melancholia
is that it makes me feel
like all this writing
(which really does make me feel a little bit better)
isn’t
actually
worth
any
effort
at
all
chugging along
the energy it takes
to simply press a key
with a fingertip
expands
exponentially
and i start feeling
exhausted
the fits and starts and stops and hiccups
the pulsating of a pulse part of me wishes didn’t exist
the tears coming to eyes that somehow still can’t cry
the thousand-yard stare into the nothingness of existence
the loneliness felt even when i know so many feel this
and my best friend is sitting mere feet away from me
the vignette of darkness shading the corners of my vision
of my image for my life now
and this poem is taking too long
and has too many words saying nothing at all
all i want to write
is
depression is hard.
my brain started the day
just craving sleep
it moved on to listing/spreadsheeting/
organizational breathing deep—-
the calm that comes from analytical endeavors
and i assumed that would negate the need for poetry
but my surprise rises in perpetuity
as i spit rhymes and find lines i didn’t know i
craved
with the very soul of me
i’ve expressed so much in so little time
in so very few lines
and it’s not even 9…
kipventures 