my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood
but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done
~~~
but is that
so bad
a thing?
~~~
i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life
how could i tell another’s?
silly thoughts
styles
how much
leave it alone
i wonder where i was going
initially
with that poem
am i digging
writing
this morning
pressure
from me
to me
keeps playing
at least i have
a coffee nearby
and a bagel
soon to be in my belly
and a dog and a spouse and a cat in this house
all by my side
(emotionally at least)
don’t get caught up in the minutia
the tiny details
the what if these have all been said before
the before of writing
when you haven’t even put pen to paper
or finger to keyboard
when you worry what you have to say
isn’t good enough
or big enough
or beautiful enough
or you aren’t any of these things either
just write
if i write
what i always needed
as a child
what might that be?
because i was pretty satisfied
when i was that age
of the grand adventures
and imaginative natures
of many of the stories
with heroes who looked
a lot like
me
but what i need now
is to have noticed i needed then
a mix between girl and boy/
that any harsh division
is unnecessary/
and that i don’t/didn’t need to carry
the weight of an entire gender
on my young shoulders.
should i write
a protagonist
who thinks that?
or would they simply come off
as
your early 2000’s Mary Sue
(and since when has that stopped
any aging white boy
from doing
pretty much
exactly that?)
the whole concept of writing
right now
feels egregious
to me
to sit in solemn silence
and ponder grand plans
tiny details
and all between
and simply translate them
to characters in words upon a screen
i don’t know why i
can go from sixty to zero
from brain chattering every day
so much to do, so much more to say
all the previous yesterdays
and then today
be struck
stuck
stagnant
and frustrated
by the whole concept of language
such is the life
and times
and minds
of writers?
i don’t really know
what
i want to do
what words i want to say
to share
with folks of varying varieties
acts
claps
applause
what is it all
and what is it all for
you know?
~~~
re-reading
old words
completed poems
even some not yet posted
and i think
that’s a great way
to spend
an end-of-year day
today—
don’t you?
~~~
dance around the room
calm the over-excited pup
listen to worded and non-worded music
read words about naps
and contemplate them, too
morning. here.
this morning
the pages don’t flow
they flitter
glitter shimmering past my peripheral
if i follow the train of thought
i want
i’ll be leaving this subject matter behind
but what is it i’m trying to find?
am i aiming for polish
for pristine
for perfection
or could it be
the messy/testing/trying out
glitter flittering in and out
dopamine hitting my starved system
will fill it far more than
niceness served for nicety’s sake
who am i kidding?
i am a perfectionist and a completionist
i can aim for both at once
it doesn’t matter that that would require
a physically impossible arrow
more time in the day than is there now
legitimately anything different than what i bear
but now
i can admit my silly ways
my impossible aims
and even if i still want what i literally cannot have
at least i know it
and that’s progress
right?
i know the morning
is here for me
to delve into my
psychology
and think through things
as they may or may not be
but right now it feels
more like a chore
more like a bore
score none and no more
the act of writing
of poetizing
less than appetizing
and i can’t help but feel
like a
fraud
~~~
one more poem
one more verse
simply to make me feel
like i didn’t just waste
an entire block of my morn
writing stupid rhyming poetry
for nothing
for naught
for no one but me
(that’s the only person
actually
for whom this
poetry)
~~~
and writing
as me
as my own self
is so odd
because i’ve spent so much of my life
not knowing
(or straight up hiding)
who i truly was
that i’m uncertain
i’d even know
for sure
now
how does one get
better
at poetry?
is it all about alliterations
and internal rhyme
and the thousands of metaphors
that have already been primed
to be shared, to be taken, to be overused
to the point of cliche
to say i want to be a poet
is not to mean i want to spoon-feed you stanzas of
love
as a beautiful weed
or churn out odes to
the moon
(though our lunar satellite is pretty cool)
but i digress
i must confess
my digression into this poem was nothing more than a question
not a contemplation of how i am the best
(my goodness, i know i’m not the best)
but i want to know—
for the poems that i read
and hear
that flow
and hit me right here
(that’s my heart, in case you aren’t watching)
they speak of the human condition
universal language
of love, joy, pain, suffering
maybe one day i could write
as well as
Amanda Gorman
Angel Nafis
Staceyann Chin
Audre Lorde
(hah
i remember a time the only poets i knew
were crusty old men
and look at me now,
just off the top of my head
badass black femme poets whom i’ve read
rather recently
and i want to imbibe more
more cultures
more languages
more experiences
because—
and here it is
the point i was trying to make—
i think
to be a better poet
you must have experiences
life experiences
living
breathing
interacting with people
experiencing all this world has to offer
this universe
and so
in conclusion
i guess i should go
live
more?
)
i keep having ideas
good ideas
great fucking ideas
for poems
and essays
and thought pieces
when i’m on the train
when i’m out walking post-rain
when i don’t have my computer with me
and my words come faster than a notebook would suit me
so i just leave it dormant
in my head
hoping against hope
that it’ll all be there again
when i have my things/solitude/words/supplies
but it’s all lies
i know the words are there
and the concept needs to be shared
i’m just
plain
scared.
kipventures 