waking up from a wild dream
with ideas for a story
but honestly, once fully awake,
there are far more questions about this concept
than an initial start to writing
but i suppose i’ll just have to see
what it may become
eventually
by writing it
do i have writer’s block
or does writer’s block have me
in a chokehold
from which i’ll never be released
do i have writer’s block
or is writer’s block my best frenemy
stalking me
fighting
and making up
and i keep them around for…
…for what?
do i have writer’s block
or is my whole life a lie
based on wanting to write
but never knowing how or when or why
or even if i really should
so i just
rush back
into writer’s block’s arms
do i have writer’s block
or are these excuses
to keep me from writing out
my whole soul?
still on the high from the retreat
trying to connect with my own creative vibe
outside of all the wonderful folks
i got to know
over three long/short days
i think [my] lesson of the retreat is:
everyone has such different methods of storytelling
and modes of writing
and even within one person there are
worlds and citizens and characters and genres
and everyone listening is so, so supportive
i think i may be able to bring something
next year
[better start writing/planning
now!]
[and that is the first time that has felt exciting
and daunting
rather than daunting and a laborious struggle]
perhaps
in order to avoid the trappings
of first-time writings
[the “mary sue” the self-insertion
the romanticized tragedy
the not-flawed-enough protagonists
and too-flawed antagonists
and cursorily researched science
and all things i’d judge or freeze stagnant
when viewing in my own writing]
i simply need to go after them,
on purpose even,
and indulge.
having not written
my full 300 words
in damn near five days,
i expected to struggle to even get past
the first hundred mark
but here i am
skating over into the two-hundred zone
and i should have known
i should have known
it’s not that i’d forget
poetry-writing
or block it up
for future poetics
it’s that i haven’t been able to get things
out
in days
and i am a fountain
about to unleash
a river’s worth of flow;
a dam
that is bursting at the seams
with words and stanzas
and ideas and dreams
[and, of course, metaphors and similes]
there is a flood of poetry
erupting from me
i really should have known
i’m just writing words
and the minute i move on
to the next line, the words above
seem to fade from my mind
immediately
i wonder if this is going to be
simply the state of
today
sometimes
i need to remind myself
that i needn’t set out to change minds
when i write from my own soul
no certain goal in my mind
that’s when others’ are impacted
and yes, sometimes, changed
[but what if the mind i need to change
is my own?]
it’s always so strange
writing in the nighttime
everyone around me already asleep
it feels like a secret
i may get to keep
unlike the morning writing times
where it flows from me
and into the ether/the void/the endless space that is the internet
those secrets i always
let
go
[and i think they may still be going]
i have so many ideas
and concepts
and words
and stanzas
running through my head at all times
i am damn near constantly in a state
of needing to get something
out
of my system
but i don’t write when i need to
i save it all up for the morningtimes
and in the morningtimes
when i’m ready to write
i come up with almost
nothing
i’m writing
poetry
as warm-up
for maybe something new
something old
something played
something playing
something tragic
something nostalgic
something
i’m going towards
now
kipventures 