Confession: I wrote three poems last night and deleted them all, before giving in (or up) and dashing out the last one. I don’t know what is causing this pome malaise. Maybe it is the time of year, and the darkness and all, or maybe it is the fact that I feel like I’m on a creative pause, or the feeling that I’ve already had all the thoughts and feelings I’ll ever have that are poemworthy; whatever it is, I’m stuck. Last night I felt familiar flashings of creation in each poem, and by the time I was done I hated each one. Ick.
Today I ran errands and had a doctor’s appointment. We were supposed to go to the company Christmas party, but I vetoed that in favor of a night at home. Yea, me. I’m one hundred percent sure that was the right call. Bowling and dinner and prizes sounds relaxing to some, I’m sure. To me it sounded exhausting-bordering-on-torturous. So I cancelled it and we got to be a family for some hours. Yea, me. But, what to poem about? I’m going to write a poem about trying to write a poem.
The Attempt, Again
The attempt is all that that should be expected, these days. It is half-hearted, that’s how it feels, half-assed try after half-assed try, but really awake minute passed without screaming is a triumph. Here, each wailing, shouting, screaming with each grief, awe, and joke, each footstep is worth a bushel and a peck of courage. In the dark the prizes double. Waking from a nightmare? Midnight bills and imaginary illnesses? Night sweats and old beds, prematurely bad backs and bad sinuses? Car troubles, a leaky roof, tuition, gas, and the stupid Holidays? Level up. Level up and take top score just for trying, just for the attempt in the Grown-up Game.
That one felt better than yesterday’s. We’ll see how I feel about it in the morning. This poem kind of turned into a big rant against responsibility, but really, enough is enough. I’ve had enough of being a grown-up. I know I write that all the time. But really. This is bogus. Happy Tuesday, my poem peeps. High fives for the try, tomorrow.