I Surrender

THE POEM WON’T WRITE

That’s not the poem
I want to write
The words don’t rhyme
The tone’s not right
I cannot find
The rhythm’s soul
The poem won’t write
But won’t let go

I didn’t want June to end like this, with me sitting here, a pile of blank pages on one hand and a useless tangle of words on the other. Nothing’s cooperating, though. Ink and paper have declared war on one another, and I have been unable to effect a truce.

I blame myself, of course. I haven’t been writing every day. I have no excuses and all the excuses; none of them matters. This is simply where I am at the moment. Usually this is when I question the viability of the blog. If I’m not going to write, I can’t post. Simple. So I ask myself for the umpteenth time: Why am I writing at all?

The most honest answer I’ve fished from the pile of answers I’ve amassed from the thousands of times I’ve asked myself that question is this: I write because it’s fun. That’s it. I enjoy it. I like taking ink and spreading it around a page in dribs and drabs and seeing what picture emerges. Some days I like what I see better than others. Some days I’m positively elated, and others I just shake my head and move on. Then, on days like this, I crumple up the paper, toss it in the trash, and yell at the walls. Maybe not as fun, but funny, if I can back myself up enough to see the absurdity of my little tantrums. These days are simply reminders not to take myself so seriously. I’m no tortured artist. I’m just me. And writing little poems and posting little posts is a pleasant break from dishes and laundry and life’s assorted chores and aches and pains. It’s a tiny reminder that there’s more to me and more to life if I’m willing to step out of my own way once in a while.

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