a creative drought and slowing down. I’ve always hated the term writers block because I am not blocked by anything – especially writers. More than that I am simply not writing well lately which this triggers the fear that I will not write well ever again and have I ever written well. My version of writers blockade is that the ideas may come and there are no words to accompany it, no way in so I bite my bottom lip and try but even the typing is off and uninspired.
the last poem I wrote – the last thing of any value that I had written was a short poem that talks about fingering the muse – maybe I’ve offended the inspiration by thinking too much of my work and not enough of the source. Today’s poem is not that poem. Today’s was written at a point of high creativity – when the muse was working overtime and would wear me out daily, like a good lover or construction labor.
too lax to title
fuck you.
I’m tired,
it was nthing
or something
I forget
butitdoesn’tmatteranyway
Like I said
Fuck you,
I am not working anymore tonight
not for you or anyone
I’m too god damned tired
and sore
I can feel the plate
it’s sickening
like
watching you squirm when
I type out –
you’re wearing the wrong
size underwear
regardless,
I will not write
this
for you
tonight
I am too fucking worn
from the day.
pt. 2
of course I lie.
I’m tired
worn
sore
like a man after a days
work
and you know whatitslike
bang
bang
bang
all fucking day
so, goodnight love.
xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx
Let’s do it again tomorrow.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 