Saturday, April 28, 2018

Writing, Frustration & Solitude

Why wanting/needing to write - or indulge in any other creative endeavour - is frustrating...

You work a long week, 50 hours or more dealing with people and people and people, when you are a poster-boy introvert. But you cope and if you're good at it, no one really knows just how much you crave solitude. You enjoy the interaction, when you enjoy it, and you love some of the humans and want to look after the broken ones, but through it all you look forward to some solitude and reflection.

But the weekend comes and someone has a thing, let's catch up for a thing, some drinks, a meal, a barbecue in the backyard or a party in the bush. And you like these things, but you don't get the chance to be solitary and reflective during the working week, and you certainly can't do it when you're socialising, so when? You're tired at the end of a 10 hour day, you're tired at the end of a fifty hour week, and you're accused of being antisocial if you don't want to catch up with friends on the weekend. Catching up with friends is what they do for their not-working time. At the end of a long working week filled with humans and their wonder and their weirdness, some of us want to be alone and just write a poem.

But we have to catch up. Must catch up. We must socialise and socialise and socialise and talk about things.

Leaving no time for reflection and imagination.

Friday, April 27, 2018

A Silly Poem That Is Actually Quite Sad

I Love Silly Poetry Because
I love it when
You write a poem late at night,
And it's shit as pooh,
And so you go fuck it
And you think you deleted it,
But didn't,
And in the morning
You're all fuck me...
Seriously?
What?
Wot?
Wut?
WTF?
And then you don't even know what poetry is because really what is it? But you notice this line is waaaaaaay longer than the other lines of the really short lines of this fucked up and fucked up and this fucked up poem.
Yewp.
And that friend you thought
Knew you so well
Who never existed,
She tells you there there,
I really love that.

Almost Alone

All the good ones leave,
They are travellers
And adventurers
And just the most
Beautiful souls,
Who by their nature,
Drift,
And drift

They always leave,
They always leave,
And he is left
Almost alone.