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 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,
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.