Some draft poems from 2018 that I found recently. It’s always fun to stumble across writing from the past and reflect on what still resonates vs. what sounds like it’s written by somebody else.
sometimes I feel like I should just settle already
for a place, person or version of myself. I could
have a son or daughter. I think I’d like that, living a
quiet life at the edge of the city like my mother did, does.
Other times, the four-legged dreams inside me yearn
to break free, run across the rocky terrain of the unknown,
fill my lungs with flammable potential with every quickening
breath, let life burn bright as my heart beat rises, until I am
panting art and sweating fire, leave expectations in the ashes,
the becoming, rather than taming, of the beast.
today I went to the physio and she told me that the pain in my back was real.
how relieved I was for her to touch the knot between my shoulder blades and say “oof”
to know it wasn’t all in my head as she taped me up and suggested sticking needles in my body
(even though that thought petrified me).
What would have been worse is if she told me there was nothing wrong
and at all and that all that pain I felt was normal.
Maybe if I can start going to the physio, I will also be able to go see a doctor about my brain.
Let them scan it for wildflowers and weeds, so the garden of mind is once again one I am
not afraid to visit, walk through barefoot and carefree.
I know this isn’t a popularity contest (but it also sort of is right)?
some people have more facebook friends than I have followers and I get more likes on Instagram on a quick photo slapped over by valencia than I ever do on a poem I fiddle with for days and I wonder if I amjust not good enough?
I’ve been reading bukowski and he says you shouldn’t write unless it is practically bursting from your soul and I have never felt like that. My words do not flow like streams into a crashing waterfall, my words do not fall like rain into the sea. They do not burn like forest fire or pierce like bullets. They splitter and spatter like water in a pan full of bubbling oil. They chug along like an old train on a rusty railroad. A stuttering of the mind, a dearth of brightness, as if my head is submerged in a vat of ink and when I try to lift myself up to breathe I cover the world in mess and not art.
Maybe I am not a vessel for grand works meant to split the earth and revolutionise minds of my generation but it has been my public diary, a respite for bad days and that at least is worth something to me.