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…
insert word here
add another phrase
perhaps a whole sentence in this middle place
slow down the thoughts to
one
word
per
line
a slightly askew way of looking at that subject
hangs out in this short stanza by itself
[and that’s how i write poetry]
meditate on love
coding
and community
what an anniversary!
i try to create art with words
but sometimes i need to create art
with art
and my abilities there
do not size up
and i frustrate-quit
over
and over
and over again
but what if
i
kept going?
so much writing
over the past three days
and so little of it
poetry-based
who even am i?
i’ve been pondering
stories
as lives
lives as stories
and i haven’t come to any conclusions
yet
except that
apparently
this is my current way
to dissociate
planning and preparing
are nothing when it comes to
insurance
human fallibility
and the twists of the fates
~~~
i use squiggles
[tildes]
to break the momentum
from one poem
to the next
but only in a batch of three
because formatting in devices these days
is far too variable
for a whole line
so i rely on my
three
little
squiggles
to [hopefully] signify
to both reader and writer
that this poem is over–
re-ready yourself
for a whole new
poem
beginning.
~~~
lost in the depths of a book
so visceral
so immersive
so taking-me-along-for-the-ride
i can’t decide
if this one is more stressful than the first
but all of these ninths
give me some sort of curse
of caring
and staring
long distances as i listen to them
audiobooks carrying me through the star-system
the big house
the river
and i just want to know
what happens next
what happens next
what happens next???
i have a little notebook
where i diligently write down
everything i’ve done
daily
so as to not feel like a complete tool
and imposter
and fool
for ‘not doing anything
productive
every day’
it helps with some things—-
i can track when i tend to
get stuck on my phone
doom scrolling
and doom scrolling
and doom scrolling
ad nauseam,
and i can track what days
i seem to feel more pumped
to do things
that i should be
doing,
or the perfect storm
of creative inspiration
and bodily motivation—-
and if there’s a discrepancy
between kip’s and my memory
i can usually pull it up to see
which of us is remembering falsely
but
i’ve found
it’s hard to put aside the time
to write in the notebook
with each passing event/
activity/
noticing,
and i have to gather a formal moment in my day
(or two)
to catch up in my
little notebook of everything
and therefore
(since it takes so long)
i end up writing in a passage
a moment
a marker
of when i took time out of my day
to write down all the things i did that day
and that feels a little…silly to me
thoughts?
why
do i only feel ‘good’ at something
when i’m in enough to know
the difference between
solid and not
and i’m early enough to not put undue pressure
on myself—-
but the minute i might add the label ‘professional’
i lose all self-perspective/
expect myself to be
miles better
than where i started
but i’m only me
i can only act where i’ve been
i can only write of what i know
and only let the words flow as they go
and i can’t force anything in emotional expression
so please
(i beg of myself)
let me be
and let me be me
and don’t expect perfection
because it isn’t a real thing
(and it never has been,
but that’s a lesson
for another
poem)
trying
to be writing
with music playing
(words wording up the place)
(but such good words
you know?)
my focus is split
(even more than usual)
and i can’t reread what i’ve already written
to see if it flows
spits
fits and starts
start me towards a real poem
one of these days
two of these days
three four, that’s all i need
to concentrate on one solid slam
of a poem written down
picked up
spat out
at an open mic
or recorded for those who truly see me
every week
(i miss that)
(i feel weak for missing that)
(but there’s no need to self-judge—
you’ve done that far more than enough)
and the most interesting part
of writing
with words
flowing behind my mind
is that i find myself rhyming with the phrasing i’m hearing
rather than the phrases i’m writing
and i don’t know if any of this
will make any sense
but i’m kinda digging
this
split-focus
un-re-read
rhyming with words you won’t hear
if you’re just reading this poem here
kinda vibe
kipventures 