does writing
get easier
the more i do it?
no.
does it at least get
more
intuitive?
no.
ok, but does it
seem like
it’s part of me,
like i could finally call myself
a ‘writer’
after writing
every single morning
since early 2020/
after finishing
a first draft
of a whole novel/
after keeping up
with this
daily poetry blog
for 470+ days?
kind of…?
i felt so motivated yesterday
(and the day before that)
and i know i did some of the things
on the to-do list,
but i did much less than
i originally
expected
and i need to be ok with that
i need to be ok with that
i need to remind myself that
i need to be ok with that
because otherwise
i’m just capitalism’s
newest victim
and fuck capitalism
~~~
fly
spy
in the sky
i wonder why
you need to fly
around our home and spy
on us
~~~
this
cotton
candy
coffee
is the silliest thing i’ve ever tasted
and it just makes me
smile
smile
smile
~~~
how do i absorb
the lessons i’ve learned
in trying to help others?
i.e. the advice i’ve given,
can i/will i ever
take it myself?
is there ever
a magical wand for
turning kindness inward?
~~~
the poems today
aren’t turning out great,
but they’re not bad, either,
they’re just there
and that’s all they need to be
at this moment
in
time
~~~
do you ever feel
so tired
and yet so hyped up
that you feel like
if you followed your energy
you’d vibrate until
your skin just kind of
shucked itself off of your bones?
…nah, me neither
my brain
is not retaining
a track this
morning
and i’m worrying
and resting
all at
once
but the flow
comes and goes
and i have no way to
figure out what
is happening
and where
it is
go–
ing
i can’t seem to follow
my poemideas
through
maybe a nap will do?
i’ve been writing
for
450 days
writing poetry
every morning
for
450 days
and this is still my
wake-up
this is still my
focus-time
this is still my
resistance
you know?
~~~
itching for adventure
one coming up soon
not soon enough?
~~~
the plan
is planned
for today
stick to it?
i may…
in the mornings
i am coming into my own
and i write
and i write
and i say
very little
during the day
i am observing all my own
and i think
and i think
and i write
very little
at night, before sleep
my mind analyzes
everything on its own
and i ponder
and i prepare
and i write masterpieces
in my mind
but i really write
not at all
and in the morning
it’s gone.
i can feel you
just past my fingertips
lightly guiding my time
here
and i wonder if you
hear me when
i talk to
you
~~~
language
is a slippery slope
a slow burn to
bonfire blaze
flames
licking the sides
of a place
you once called
home
language
and manipulation of it
is spending years
decades even
trying to find
the perfect word or phrase
for every situation/
meaning/
feeling
until you realize
language will never be enough
so you just do what you gotta
until the day when something
comes close enough
that it gives you
a shadow of
that feeling
language
is my art form
and when i’ve done it right
it paints pictures without a canvas,
tells stories sans narratives,
brings others into a close embrace
without ever
getting
near
and for someone who despises words
and their limitations
as much as i do,
i sure hold language dear.
~~~
is it time?
time to prose it up
again?
my fingers now type
automatically
in stanzas
(could i even go back
to straight narrative
if i tried?)
these poems might not be
exactly
what i’m trying to say,
but damn is it closer than any
‘stream of consciousness’
over-writing
will get me.
stop
looking at memes
and write
please
[a memo to myself]
To Do
Today:
An Experiment;
let’s warm up a little
with this Morning Poetry
but
let the majority of the writing happen
later
after breakfast
after naps
when the day is fully itself
and i feel myself too.
maybe then inspiration can be
things happening
my feelings
my emotions
my thoughts
not just
‘i’m so tired’
or
‘i want to be able to write’
maybe
possibly
this could be
my way in.
normally
getting mindless tasks done
before poetry-ing
helps me concentrate on
this creative process
but right now
i have little
(to no)
interest
in writing
interesting…
kipventures 