Non-committed Writing


It’s been such a long time since I’ve sat down to commit to writing. Short, uncomplicated poems have been bursting from my hand like bubbles in pop but to actually commit to a thought that trails longer than a breath (which is how poetry feels to me, an exhalation, the next idea comes as quickly as the last) has felt weighty and awkwardly unnatural.

And I’ve been running with the unnatural by doing nothing. Not even trying to write beyond the poem. Not even brainstorming or journaling or thinking beyond the pauses, no longer stringing one idea to another to create a bulk of something that may or could or would mould into a story or reflection. And then I wonder if any of this even matters. Is this is worth even writing about, the not writing stuff. And is the not writing a symptom of a bigger disillusion? And what am I feeling disillusioned about… what has changed?

Everything has changed. Everything always does change, day by day. And these changes can build into a complete overhaul of how we perceive ourselves and the world. And that make me feel a little disillusioned at times as it only reminds me that all we label ourselves to be are only fleeting beliefs, constructed by everything we’ve absorbed till that point.

What a wild world we live in. It’s scary as hell and more beautiful than imagined galaxies, more surreal than dreams, more intense than heightened cravings. And to think about what I want want to write about overwhelms me as there are a million feelings worth exploring and endless sinarios that paint a complex tapestry of chapters. 

So poetry soothes this chaos, its eases the wordy pulse that quickens during 3am wake up calls. It makes sense to not try and make sense of anything, I wonder if we’re never supposed to understand. I’ve spent the past few years trying to find myself in a flow that suits. I still feel a little bloated and bulky during various moments of the day. That’s just me and I’m ok with that now.

Was I always trying to be an idea of myself, as I beat myself up for not writing the novel I once hoped I’d be able talk about to inquisitive strangers? Who knows, I certainly don’t. 

So I guess poetry is my commitment, steering frantic energies that would only bury themselves in my bones if I didn’t pick up the pen. It’s medicine to write what feels right. Fuck what I think I’m supposed to be doing. 

I’m supposed to be doing me, right now, being the only woman I know how to be. For now, anyway.

Bestest 

So said the dog ‘oh human, I’d really like to know, where exactly is the spot that biscuits like to grow?’
‘You know the ones you give me, to settle me at night, I’d like to find them for myself and take a crunchy bite’

The human laughed ‘oh dog, they do not grow on trees, they’re made by hands of human kind and travel overseas. See the biscuits that you eat, aren’t natural like the grass, they’re made of stuff I cannot spell and stamped to show they pass. Passed as what, I’m not too sure, but still you like to chew, they seem to keep you able, to do as dogs can do’

The dog was not too sure of this, as what should he then eat, if missiles were to hit the earth and kill off all the meat? ‘If that should happen’ the human said ‘you’d die as well, I’m sure.’ So said the dog, ‘how sad is that’ and cried into his paw.

The human and the dog, they hugged until it hurt, but then the human had a thought she couldn’t wait to blurt. ‘You see, we could get blown so high we find another planet, where I could be a butterfly and you could be a rabbit. And then we’d eat whatever’s there, be yellow, red or blue. We’d nibble on fresh pastures green or make a rainbow stew. Let’s hope that if this world should end our souls will stay together. To roam around this universe, best pals we’ll be forever’