I've been allowing myself entirely too much leeway and giving myself too many reasons NOT to write. To wit:
Shit's too painful.
Nobody wants to read my bitching and moaning. (Shit, I know I don't wanna read it!)
I don't have the damn time to indulge my fantasy about being a writer!
There just isn't enough time.
If I cut open a vein and bleed on the page, or screen, I'll just fuckin' die!
I'm tired of even thinking about it...
That's it. I'm just tired, the brain is overloaded and the scribblings in my journal have turned to shit. They're meaningless even to me now. Why attempt to coalesce any of it to make sense to anyone else?
Maybe that's why...maybe that someone else will possible understand, maybe that someone else can make sense of it, maybe that someone else would be another me, a reflection of this crazed person mindlessly typing here now.
Or maybe not!
It's just another form of resistance, me thinking/feeling that I'm not a writer. I don't suffer these feeling lightly. Hell, I'm not a decent mate, a good father, a lover, a friend, nor family member either.
And yet, and yet, some of the 'crap' in my handwritten journal appeals to me, some of what I've posted on facebook gets positive reactions, some of what I've spit at a local open mike is well received.
My children still love me, my friends still ask to hang out and, well, the mate and lover definitely could use some work but I am still loved.
Shit, I will get over this malaise by doing a very simple thing: I will write.
Here and there
wrung out of me
if need be
Pressured like jeweled
adorning the page
floating over the darkened room
boomed from the mike
finding furtive rest
from my heart to
in the hope
flickering in me
poem to a flame