I've been feeling fairly poetic.
My poetry is not polished. It isn't something I labor over. I don't spend hours upon hours tweaking lines and pondering the imponderables. Pretty much...I write it. First go. Brain Dump Poetry, if you will. I've had a few poems published over the years, but I haven't even tried to get anything accepted anywhere in eons. It's not what I do. I don't ever write it, really, for other people to read. It's mostly my brain needing a small outlet and -- poof! -- a poem.
It does happen more often when I'm feeling introspective or pernicious or pensive or any number of other random feelings/words that people don't often use. And I've been feeling more and more that way for a while. There is a hole in me.
Not the Black Horse and Cherry Tree kind but a hole nonetheless. An emptiness. I'm not sure what to fill it with. I've been pouring things into it but nothing is filling it up.
This all sounds like a great deal of nonsense.
I think I'm lonely.
And...little dude's club has been cancelled, so I gotta go pick him up early. Maybe I'll write a poem later. Finish the one I was thinking about a few days ago, that I didn't really write down.
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