I can't even tell you why I might be willing to put myself out there with some really shitty poetry but I guess I'm just trying to make a "journal" of all the shit I write-- incase I die and my family can't figure out my password to my phone.
This poem on the Instagram post #poetryisnotaluxury got me thinking:
SHORT LECTURE ON YOUR OWN HAPPINESS
You know how to write poetry, it is all you need to be happy,
but you will not be happy, you will be miserable, thinking you
need so many other things, and in years and years of misery
you have only one thing, as poets, to look forward to, the day
you will not want what you haven't got, the thing you have got
is poetry, let nothing cheat, or deflect you from it, even
poetry itself. Why are you sitting there? You should have fled
before I finished the first sentence.
--Mary Ruefle
My latest written while driving (DON'T EVER DO THIS) over the App Gap:
I've been thinking about what's been...what used to be.
I used to be
I used to be thin
a size 4 in spots
with a six pack in the ribs
I spent time counting calories and
fat grams
now I count blessings
and grey hairs
which are moving into the corners
of brows furrowed with worry
I sometimes wish I could go back
to that body
but never to that soul
who worried too much about what
people thought
and now it's the abhorrent love
handles that I've got (get) to hold
onto
the confidence that I so desired
but couldn't find
that I get to cling to-
a badge that I am
a woman
