I'm not crazy

I spent last night sipping dos equis and jack daniels while doing heavy maintenance on my various social networking sites, editing and submitting literally eighteen original poems to a yearly literary journal called Hot House that runs out of the English department at UT, watching the ever-adorable annual puppy bowl and playing private investigator on the bio-dad. 

There are things I need to know about myself. Speaking about myself, 

I may have already posted this at some point, it's a year and some odd months old now. That being said, I went over it and did some edits last night and it speaks to me presently a bit more than it did when I wrote it,

Life of Fiction

Pens, pencils, sharpies,

highlighters, far too many flashdrives

to ever really be necessary

a broken lamp cover

picture frame upon picture frame

a drawer with a box full of notebooks

moleskins full of words that still need typing

and edit after edit

and nothing ever really gets done around here.

I shove homework where I can't see it

school is not as important as this

family does not mean as much as this

not friends, not careers, not life

nothing makes a heart beat quite as forcefully

as a burst of inspiration

as typing the paragraph

that will become 1k

then 2k

then page after page of obsession

characters fill dreams at night.

Déjà vu comes from novels you've started and stopped

and eating doesn't seem all that important

when you could be holed up in a dimly lit room,

creating a world you never knew you craved.

You have meetings, you have class

you go back a week later and it hits you,

God, was I really going to publish this shit?

Print. Crumple for Closure. Hide it in a file you avoid.

Maybe pretend to live for a week,

and then,

back at my desk.

Clutter, clutter, clutter,

far too many flashdrives to ever really be necessary,

the desk where the sun shines in from the balcony window.

I promise you that one day my name will be household. 

Much love, 

Loch.