behind my eyes, in front of my brain,
and now it's leaking and won't stop.
And the weird salty lines that I've scrubbed
and scrubbed at just retrace themselves.
It's like ugly catharsis
gone all wrong.
Oh it's all wrong, I supposed.
People aren't where they ought to be,
and I want to just sort of pick them up,
as though I were just a large bird,
like a crane,
and I could put them right back where they belong.
It's been some sort of awful today,
a variety of strange sleepy haze
and scattered thoughts and horrid thoughts
and I just wish it hadn't happened at all.
Because now all I can do
is let my eyes drip and weep
like an oozing mosquito bite.
I'm an awful fright to look at right now.
And all I want to do is write.
So I will.
I will.
I will write and fix
and edit and cut and probably
cry some more,
and hope and hope and hope
that what I am doing
is what is right.
For me.
For now.
Somedays
I think I am an artist.
Others, I don't.
And somedays, like today
I say to myself
"I don't want to be an artist".
Which is forsaking everything
I love.
And other days,
I just write, and the status of myself
does not matter in the slightest.
I could be an artist, but it wouldn't matter,
not one bit.
But, to be perfectly honest,
I hate my technical writing.
I am upset with my technical writing.
I don't know how to fix it.
I am upset.
It is not going well.
Essays are essays are essays.
One after another
until I just can't bring myself to
throw myself into the crazy loop anymore.
I feel like a martini,
shaken, not stirred.
With ice.
So I'm covered in odd little bruises
and my head is just screaming.
I wish I were a bird.
Or a tree.
Or a sea.
I'd be happy as a sea.
Very happy.
I hate being so unable to help
my friends. There is not much I can do,
I don't know what to do, what to say.
I hate feeling illegitimate.
I need to write.
I need to quit this silliness.
Goodnight.
I love you.
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