Thursday, June 10, 2010


i sit down to write
and hours go by with nothing on the page
i decide to write, ink to paper, to see if it will help
like it did in the olds days.

i keep saying i don't want to be angry
that i'm not angry
and through my handwritten entry
i realize that i am very angry

she tells me i have a lot to be angry about
but i have no fight in me, i tell her
i am tired all of the time
and someone giving me the finger took the wind out of my sails

i am a house of cards
i am stuck in space and time
or maybe just a blank white screen
but either way, it's lonely out here

i go through the motions
i try to care, try to connect
and i find the only way i can is to post it publicly
on a blog
who is read by the people i should be reaching out to.

so maybe it is alright that i can blog
even though i cannot write.
"I've been living narrative that was not my own"
I keep telling myself that to make sense of my feelings.

but that poses a big dilemma when you have put
a deposit down on an expensive writing workshop
with no-fucking-story.
i am just beginning this narrative.

i write something about my Dad,
but it is more about how are relationship
changed with one sentence
"Maybe you're mother did it."

I write that it is as if I have been looking
through a kaleidoscope at the same damn image
and something came along and finally rotated it for me.
"the world is prismatic," senora tells me.

I wish someone had told me sooner.

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