An journey analyzing, writing, and performing poetry
Something Profound and Pointless
I wanted to write something profound something that made philosophers feel like they were at the dentist’s and normal people feel like they were in the Sistine.
Is that the right word?
I wanted to write something meaningful And I could do that? And what would that mean?
But I sit here and stand here and sleep here, and I’ll die here still and until these words hold no meaning: I thought as if with thoughts, significance could fester, some thing would grow like a wilt flower through sidewalk.
And what did I really expect?
They won’t get better like wine Nor did I dig them from the depths of my soul, from buried treasure of beautiful trauma; these words don’t pull at my heart; their meaning is sand in a strainer.
And isn’t this nice?
If I strain enough I may hear just an utterance of what the hell I am talking about.
And isn’t that pointless? And isn’t this expected?
Instead of beauty or life or tragic loss, I now write about complete and utter un-inspiration; it is as if it is all I can do. it is as my fingers are stone and honey until I am transcribing my complete inability:
And doesn’t that require an ability? And isn’t that pointless?
I wanted to write something grounded, enough so that I could say my head is in the clouds and my feet are cinder blocks and I’m stretching, but I’m five foot three and made of taffy.
And isn’t that an exaggeration?
I just wanted to write something interesting not just thought provoking emotional contusion, a cacophony of endless existence, something more interesting than my life something more interesting than my view.
And what is a view of the suburbs?
Behind so many slightly distorted windows, one glance will convince you the sky looks like milk. It isn’t worth it to open your eyes just to see things you’ve already seen, people you’ve already memorized words you’ve already spoken.
And I’ve spoken a lot, haven’t I?
how are you? fine. good.
There is no point to conversation if this is how it should go; Why should I privy my ears to that? and why should I want to write: that?
Why would people want to read that?
I wanted to write something personal; something like:
I have anxiety; this is scary I am gay; this is scary I am terrified of; this. is scary.
And isn’t this too honest? I am indecisive and this makes me wary.
Is this how vulnerability is supposed to feel? I don’t like it. This is scary.
I need affirmation, tell me this is scary. This is scary, isn’t this scary?
I’m afraid of drowning, but I’m wading through these words, insecurities for who?
This is for who?
I had nightmares of being stuck in a car and not knowing how to drive, though I’m white-knuckling this steering-wheel, I’m afraid to die.
Collisions are scary, right?
I’m afraid I have an overwhelming need to clarify myself: the window washer, a stone polisher, a hopeless romantic
Is that clear?
I’m afraid of these mistakes and of being not perfect; Is this semicolon out of place? Is this at all worth it?
I’m afraid of being seen, so I’ll hide with punctuation. Is; this; good; enough?
I have anxiety and this is scary.
I wanted to write something personal; something like how I question then delete every word, and that this may be helpful if anything but blank sheet and empty feelings filled their space;
This is- Is this-
It is as if the backspace is my best friend and we tap tap chitter chatter all the time.
I wanted to write better; but I find that the more I write, these words are getting worse.
Aren’t they? tap. tap.
I wanted to write more subtly; but I find that the more I write, as a pencil snaps getting sharpened, these words are getting dull
Aren’t they? tap. tap.
I wanted to write! But these letters are confusing so I’ll put them together in a blender and then will they make any sense?
They’re senseless, aren’t they? tap. tap.
I wanted to write; I’m afraid I can’t write. Can I write? Please, Can I write? but I just tap. tap. and---tap.