- although it's an extended process-
i guess it is, excuse the pun, dawning on me.
i have so much i want to work out semantically but it only comes out it minor fragments or rhyme scheme, scraps of meter, and awkward but desperately passionate motivation through space.
as frustrating as this is, i guess we'll call it cognitive writers block,
this is the only place i can get to tonight:
it's perfect,
like the weather.
mild predictability
in you
turning me
inside out.
i don't even know what that is supposed to mean.
don't you hate it when you don't even understand what you, yourself, write.
- but then isnt that also the beauty of poetry?
i'll make more sense soon,
if i weren't so superstitious about making promises i can't keep, i'd promise.
and isn't that significant in itself?
- and if you know you can't keep promises but you promise yourself, that knows this, anyway is it really making a promise?
maybe it's just hoping.
1 comment:
i'm no poet. not even close; i wouldn't know where to begin. but i really like your approach to the art. you seem very real about the whole process, and what you produce (if that word doesn't sanitize the outcome too much) is equally real and raw and sporadic seeming.
cheers
j
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