Tuesday, June 1, 2010

just you and me, washing machine

i keep trying to write
but all that comes are bursts
of broken lines
or play by plays of scenes
devoid of emotion
or even worse
description of emotion.
i have these stories inside me
but i don't know how to get them out
and perhaps it is because they are too close-
they have always been too close.
so i begin reading a book
"the situation and the story"
and i realize that i am living in the situation
but i don't have the story yet;
the story i always wrote is no longer true.
i tried to read a three page piece I wrote a year ago and was turned off
by the anger and judgment  in the first paragraph.
was i always that naive?
or just that blinded?
i fill my time alone with tasks
to avoid sitting down and facing my computer,
to avoid admitting what i know now to be true-
that we were all wrong, but too damn scared to change it.
and all its left me with is this maddening cycle of regret, remorse, guilt, relief,
the relief triggering guilt and the whole damn cycle repeats
like a washing machine that has a load that keeps knock it off balance
soon, the machine might flood
and what will we do then about all those lost socks?
i tell my writing mentor that every night i sit down to write and all that is coming out is really bad poetry.
why change things now?

1 comment:

Carmen said...

poetry is in the air. just keep writing it. you can judge it three years from now. but now, just write.