asphyxia

2 years into my masters program and i am feeling officially done.

problem is, i’m not yet.

you see, i have this poetry blog–where i used to write poems incessantly. you may have seen it once or twice.

engel.

check out 2010 and see that i only have 9 poems. NINE. WTF???

here is the thing–i am officially sick of life getting in the way of writing what i want to write. i am officially sick of work being less than inspiring.

i need a mothaeffin break.

how could i only amount to 9 poems in 2010? how is that even possible? how did i end up in a professional writing program and not an MFA? oh that is right–my choices were limited as shiz. do i like my program? absolutely. but what the hell. 9 poems? this is how i have identified myself for YEARS and i can’t even produce one a month?

oh the agony.

i would say:

i will commit to writing more poetry.

but then, there are all those papers for school i have to write instead.

i would say:

i will take one day a week to write what i want to write.

but then, that day comes and something else is more important.

i would say:

for every chapter of my book that i write on death, i will write a billowing cloud of beautiful language.

and then i will certainly get writer’s block. wait, no. that one doesn’t work. i NEVER get writer’s block.

i feel very out of touch with the most intimate part of myself. it makes me a little sick to my stomach.

maybe tonight. maybe tonight, instead of writing for class, i will write for myself. ***in the back of my head, i know i just can’t do that***

i am screaming a little bit. what if when i am finally done with school, book written, degree framed on the wall…i can’t write poems any more? i might die. dead. death. seems appropriate considering the book topic, i suppose.

stupid death. who writes a book on death? i am such a weirdo.

i want to fall in love with fall and words and all the good stuff and forget deadlines, communication ethics, and proposal writing. oh, and work.

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Categories: Poetry

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