Day eleven and I'm already struggling
to write poetry mostly. I suppose I can write
nonsensical rhetoric, but I don't want to. This is not
a poem. I will try not to add metaphor
or image. This will be a free write I will not
control the sound or the rhythm. I am not
a baker of words. I am not a painter. Writing
is so difficult. How does it come so easily
to others? It is both painful and relaxing.
It is exhausting. Fumes. I suppose I am
free writing. So far eleven days have passed
I don't feel a change. Why did I start this again?
Am I crazy?Was Plato right? We tell lies all
the time. Is the sky just a sky that's just a sky
or is it a blanket, an ocean, a canvass, is it made
of glass? I'm lost. Struggle. I need to read
Percy Bysshe Shelley's "A Defense of Poetry" again. His
initials remind me of peanut butter. And I'm
sometimes caught calling him peanut butter
and Shelley. I sometimes sit here not knowing
what to write, watching the seconds flicker
off the digital stop watch on my computer screen.
It's counting upward and I feel a sense of urgency
that time is suddenly racing to an end and I
am nothing but a traveler on this pilgrimage.
Standing still feels too wasteful. How little time
we have to know ourselves. The old couple
that buys coffee from us every morning
knows. How I envy them, but everyone has
their secrets. My fifteen minutes have elapsed.
I think I'm done for today.
15:15
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