String

I found this playwright
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.

And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.

But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.

Agh.

"there's nothing to writing
all you have to do
is sit down
and open up a vein"

so, i'm trying?
but the damn vein
doesn't seem to want to open.
come
on.
How long does it take?

Beast

I haven't written a poem in a while, and while I feel a desire to do so now, I guess that desire isn't strong enough to result in a few scattered lines of verse in this empty white box, some void I guess I'm trying to fill any way I know how.

But I've been thinking about writing. I've been working on a play. I wonder if the reason I write fiction when I'm home is because I so badly need to do so. I've always known that writing is an escape... but I've felt like it isn't lately. I mean, I don't consciously do it to escape anymore. Okay, I guess in high school it was relatively subconscious... but I suppose I always knew, somewhere inside of something, that it was an escape when I would go into the computer room, shut the tall wooden doors, and scroll up after every paragraph or page or whatever so that anyone who dared wander in wouldn't catch a single glimpse of the world I was creating on paper. That was my world. I didn't usually let people into it, and when I did let people see, they just saw pretty pictures I'd painted that showed them what they wanted to see, even if it wasn't quite the way life was. Real life is ugly sometimes, you know? It's not white and clean and pretty and pure. It's sweaty and dirty and grimy and bloody and sensual and oh-so-hot... but then you look at those faces and somehow they're beautiful even with sweat dragging lines into cheeks and foreheads, streaking the makeup, black mascara lines running like watercolors or maybe like tears into foundation and powder and blush.

Scream

I tried to escape you living vicariously through me
by doing the same thing you wanted me to do.
It was always such a secret escape for me,
and yet it was almost everything you ever wanted!
How does that work? How is that even fair?

And I never even realized until years after I stopped.

To Do

It's been a while since I wrote a poem. That's kind of sad... I want to get back into the habit of writing poetry every day. I miss it desperately.