November 30, 2023

i may have shot myself in the foot/
given myself a crazy amount of work to do
on this one, singular, last day of
National Novel Writing Month

but i also know i can do it —
it’ll be tough, but it’ll be achievable.

it’ll be hard
but i’m pretty damn sure
i can do it.

i easily made 3,000 words work
in one day of writing —
just two sections
and a break in-between,
so i’ll just have to do three sections
two breaks,
or more and more
if the work needs to be divided
into tinier bite-sizes

the only worry i have
is the focus
to be split
among writing
auditioning (i.e. memorizing/practicing)
and circus-ing

perhaps i’ll have to write
non-poetry
on the train
for the first time
ever…

November 12, 2023

most days i’m at least
a little
excited to write
something

but this morning
damn near
nothing

makes me want to go
the way i normally go

[i’ve been shopping for unnecessary new clothes
as if i can change my entire life
by dressing like
someone new]

November 11, 2023

my fear
is so loud
that i’ll write about something
i don’t understand
and offend
or embarrass
[others/myself in that order]
and rather than trying
and learning
i hide
and hide harder
and hide longer
and hide farther into myself
just wanting
wanting
wanting
to write
but never doing any of it in sight.

November 9, 2023

i wish
i wish
i wish
i didn’t make myself cringe
with every thought or written word or
every kind of close to rhyme

i just want to create art
that doesn’t care about being art

[that is the purest kind]

November 8, 2023

what you need to understand
[‘you’ in this case meaning
a new reader to this poetry blog]
is that i do not write poetry
carefully
i do not rewrite and rerewrite and rererewrite —
i throw some ideas on my keyboard
and sometimes they become words
and sometimes those words fit together
just enough
to become a poem.
i don’t write with purpose
except to get more and more art out into the world
[and get these loud loud stanzas out of my head]
i don’t write for perfectionism’s sake
since perfectionism runs/ruins the rest of my life.
what you need to understand
is that this will never be
e.e. [cummings]
or dickinson [comma] emily
or bukowski
or angel nafis
or rupi
[though my shorter poems definitely emulate her]
these poems are rarely edited
barely re-read
not much adjusted to page from my head —
there’s no rhyme scheme
except
what sometimes fits together happenstance-ily,
and helping the chaos
reign itself in
is what i’m doing with these words
again and again and again —
so please,
heed my warning,
don’t expect much literarily from these words/phrases/stanzas/poems —
but expect me to show up
as i am this [and every] morning
and get something out
from me
to myself
[and then to you, if you want to read it]
[no pressure tho]

November 6, 2023

i’m feeling so at odds with my own writing this morning
like it’s a morning for reading, not creating
but i made a promise to myself —
my morning pages are for myself
to just get out what needs to get out
[and it’s ok if the posted poem for today
was not actually written today
but
i do have to write *something* today]
so what is actually in my head this morning?

November 4, 2023

it is kind of wild to me
that art in and of itself
is simply an invitation to
s t r e t c h
any truth we may want to share or inhabit

[any pureness for accuracy
may or may not be
entertaining/
good art anyway

so why not craft reality
to your individual
liking?]

October 11, 2023

writing poetry
to local news
and fake laughter
and small chit chatter

writing poetry
as the world falls apart
and explodes
and explodes
and explodes
half a globe away

writing poetry as my life
has fallen to inverse-seeing
and yet i still feel stable
and yet i still feel
nearly able
to be happy

writing poetry
far away from home
but back in a home
i once knew better
than i’ll ever
know myself

writing poetry
that’s my through line
that’s my safety net
that’s my commonality

and only a few of my people
know it
read it
know me
from it

but that’s ok
since i’m writing poetry
[mostly]
for me

September 13, 2023

cryptic poems
are no fun
when they’re written for the pure purpose of being obtuse

but cryptic poems
that come fully fleshed
from the depths of your mind
and you had no idea where it came from
or even
what in the world it’s trying to confide
but it’s here
it’s out
in the world

those cryptic poems are okay.