To Be Totally Honest...

I am amazed that the universe, muse, God, discipline has given me something to say every day for eight days straight. I had not used my poetry muscle in so long. I was afraid that one of my greatest fears had been actualized - that I awoke one morning and couldn't write anymore. What was worse, it had been so long since I did any writing that I didn't even know which morning it happened.

I don't know if I am inspired every day. I have not been enraptured as I have in the past, but maybe I have to earn that back. Maybe I have to show my muse that I am devoted enough to her will, so she comes to me again. But just because these recent poems haven't tackled me to the ground and forced my hand, it doesn't mean that they are lesser in my eyes. On the contrary, I've made a conscious effort to open my eyes even wider because poems are everywhere. They are out and about around town, and they are buried deep in the cobwebby basements within us. Underneath the anthologies of Hughes and Brooks, the books of theory, a couple of photo albums... We keep them there to silence them and try to do our work by skimming of the top. The problem with that? The top is just foam.

I confided to a friend once that I thought I wasn't writing because most of the material that felt real to me were things I did not want to share. So I kept quiet because the catharsis of my art wasn't worth the conflict that may come. I've come to realize that it is worth it. I haphazardly decided to do this, and it's given more purpose to these last eight days than I remember feeling in a long time. I need this. I need this in a way I didn't even realize. How do I know? Because I'm running after the muses now, since they're not chasing me anymore. All of my first drafts may suck, and I struggle to string word runs sometimes, but it is the most beautiful struggle. I want to take these pieces to every workshop I can find and have the people there tear me a new one so I can know how to do it better.

I'm now okay with the selfishness it takes to create art. I'm a pretty giving person in life, but I will be selfish in love. I love this - pointing things out and getting things out. Going forward, I hope to pull poems from all around and from within, and I will not avoid the basement.

NPM #8

"Damaged"

Would it be any better if I said
I didn't start to fall apart until we were together?
So it's not like I tricked you.

This unraveling is not your fault,
but it isn't my doing.
There were signs -
a little rust, some peeling paint, few loose screws...
I always thought it just added character.
That's why I didn't mention the slow leak,
and I laughed especially loudly to cover up my squeaking mind.
Glossed over the insecurity.
Gave everything a fresh coat of candy paint,
but it started to rain, and the sugar began to melt.

Now we're in the middle of the road
with rust, leaks, squeaks and peeling paint.
But your love is big enough to shelter both of us
until help arrives. I incessantly apologize for the breakdown,
but you hush me and assure that we can fix it.
"There's still a lot of good parts," you say.
And I believe you.
I really try to believe you, as I look for my umbrella
to help cover us.