2017.22 - A Sofa Called Despair

I think I’ve come under a spell -
I’m not writing poems so well;
My brain’s had enough,
It’s been filled with dry stuff,
And my eyeballs are starting to swell.

It’s not that I don’t love to write,
But I’m coupling words every night.
#amwriting (Whatever!
I’ve jettisoned clever,
And am scribbling any old shite.)

But I can’t quit while I’m still ahead
Even though my Muse fucked off to bed.
If you cannot do better
Just get bloody meta
And write about writing instead.


Turns out that doing poetry admin is antithetical to writing poetry. I knew this, but I can’t just stop for April. Either that or all the late nights are draining my creativity. Or it’s just one of those days. Anyway. Limerick. Still on target. Bah. {twitches}

2016.18 Conclusion

I've counted them up, and I've already written 33 poems this month.  Between #napowrimo entries, #poetrytogo commissions, random birthday card inserts, and "write me a haiku about having my hair cut" challenges, I've done over the amount required for me to "pass" NaPoWriMo.

And yet.  Yet I've given myself a barrel of grief over not doing it properly.

And luckily, some good people were there to tell me why, in the kindest terms possible, that's just nonsense. Weirdly, it's what I would have told them myself, were the roles reversed.  One to try to remember, eh?

This one's for them/ you:

---

It's been quite a difficult session,
What with being in thrall of obsession -
It's hard to find time
For good, shorter rhymes,
When you're learning a show - did I mention?

My head's full of timings and edits,
And "Is that how they would have said it?"s,
But if I scribble more,
Quickly ramp up my score,
This might still redound to my credit.

If I stay up 'til late in the night
And tie myself down just to write,
I might feel some pride
And no longer deride
These efforts I deem far too slight.

But you intervened - some of my friends -
And took time to kindly amend
My self-image so low,
Saying "time to let go -
With just one, you've still won, in the end."

See, turns out it's just me who sees failure,
Who's forcibly tucked in my tail, yeah.
I'll stop kicking myself -
It's just bad for my health -
And indulge in some kinder behaviour.

2015.30 - Unsuitable

My darling now I must confess
That I don’t love you any less
Than I did before
It’s just: I wasn’t sure 
If my passion was under duress. 

It seems, as your best friend opined,
That I’m just not that way inclined.
See, your bits aren’t like mine –
Does that make me a swine?
To continue would be quite unkind.

Yes, that’s right – I am “one of those”,
Born this way – it’s not something I chose.
It’s not you, it’s me,
You can keep the CDs...
There’s no chance of a lift, I suppose...?

No, you’re right, I’ll just be on my way
After all, there is no more to say
I’ll be gone in a trice,
You won't have to ask twice –
Out there it’s a gorgeous new day.