Lean on my italics, put your weighted soul on me, let it push me down the page, drown in ink and tears. Then, as you make the period, feel that sense of something ending – the record of the last few moments are clear and freed up in the black unfurl of roses in monochrome.
It’s late, but I just thought I’d reflect on why I’m doing this – why I do this blog I mean. I really appreciate having a place to put my thoughts, and to have a reason to have a creative outlet, it feels really freeing to write here. I sometimes used to feel like it was a waste to write things just for them to sit around totally unread and untouched in messy notebooks. I find it really satisfying to have an idea and then write a poem, type it up here and then see it all neat and in black and white on my screen, all together with others.
I’m really happy I decided to start properly posting and sharing something, I’ve grown in confidence in the months I’ve been writing here and I feel a little buzz whenever that orange dot comes up on the bell in the corner and I know someone’s interacted with me or with what I’ve done in some way.
This feels like a really supportive place, where a new writer’s confidence has a chance to grow. I don’t have to feel too nervous about commenting on other people’s posts or about posting my own and that gladdens me. Other parts of the internet can often seem so callous and frightening for people, particularly for someone as sensitive and easily agitated as me, considering my current mental health position as someone with PTSD and the self-doubt and self-worth issues that surround that for me.
I think it’s hard to tell whether my writing has actually improved since I started, just because I write so much now, whereas before I started this blog I only wrote occasionally. I’m not really sure how to compare poems that I posted early on, that had been sitting around in folders on the computer for months/years and I threw out there worriedly, to the ones I write now, which, for the most part, are not dwelled on nearly as much, as I grow in confidence and shrug off my inhibitions.
I feel like I’ve become a lot more playful in tone, but maybe some of my more recent poems might lack the emotive nature of my earlier work. The earlier poems I wrote tended to be more confessional and autobiographical, some of my more vivid memories written down – but now, I practice escapism a little more and tend to enjoy experimenting with imagery and just seeing what comes into my head when I sit down to write.
Anyway, I think that’s quite long enough, and I’ll try and publish this with as little restraint and fear as I have when posting most of my poems now, although I find prose posts like these considerably more revealing, with fewer places to hide – and therefore I’m more hesitant to press “Publish”, but I’m doing it anyway.
My conceit is wilted and fractured,
Starts as a waif,
Fleshes out to a thick
Clumsy carving of a free-form something, and I let it.
The tone of a poem is decided by the time of day the reader reads it.
By the gas in the room, the fumes in his tubes.
The brain leaks onto the page and the words become clear in the fluid.
I can let poems out of the cage as unfinished monstrosities,
as lumbering creatures sort of sewn together, but not quite –
all the filling sort of hanging out like a burst silicone implant (I watched a lot of surgery programmes today).
But not prose, it sort of gets treated like the over-guarded, over-disciplined older child.
It feels too real and I feel like it has to be better, has to be more of a photographic representation of my feelings… I just can’t be as playful or carefree.
And I find that annoying.
Because my feelings are in flux all the time anyway, “so what does it matter?” I ask.
But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?
I don’t know, I just can’t let go of it the same.
But I’m sure I will, I just need more practice and more time, a few months ago I would have felt sick posting a poem on here and now I’ve posted over 200.
I feel like I’m being very lax with them darling, don’t you think?
double zeroes by the smiling eyes and my brother’s age.
that’s the time
and i’m tired
and by the time i’ve typed this
it’s another time – i’ve changed.
some beads on my string have fallen off and some have been added and i record the dropping and the stacking of glass,
it’s past midnight.
and the light is much too bright in the bedroom and the capital letters are unappealing in my lazy hands and my thoughts are wooden, plasterboard, disjointed – bless,
sleep a soothing interruption to being so heavily awake.
Tablets in a hole in the mattress
Protect me from the hobbling scene
Tap tap tablet
Tap tap typewriter
Tap tap cane on the sidewalk
Tap tap grapple on wood floor