I suppose there’s something comforting in knowing what to expect.

by Working Class Heroine

 

Do you ever try to find the poems in people? I always wonder what words we emit to each other or what senses are covering us, protecting us from the outside world.  I do wonder what feelings I’m wearing when I walk the streets with my head held down low, feet smattering across the cracks in the pavement.

I wove in and out of the crowds, spending money that didn’t belong me to, reading Kant and Kierkegaard to impress the passers by with my glib knowledge, smiling to kind advisers and smoking with Sylvia Plath.

It was cold, but I wasn’t concerned with the chill. I just wanted to know what people were thinking. I felt dirty and confused, not quite myself, but it’s just one of those days I guess.

I didn’t write my poem today. Usually when I get a few moments to sit and watching the small universes walk past I write poems about them. They live on forever under the guidance of my pen. I didn’t write today and I don’t know why.

Was I afraid? I haven’t written in so long, I’m beginning to think that words are losing their touch with  me. It’s a scary thought. As a “writer” words are all I have; if I were to lose them, it would be the end of me. I dread the thought.

Am I poem? Is there something worthy to document about me? I feel like a shadow,  copying every step but I’m not an entity in myself. Will someone dedicate words to me? Selfish, I know, but we all want to be noticed in someway. The most stubborn cannot deny that.

I think what Tom Waits and I are trying to say is that the familiar is easy, almost too easy that it becomes unnerving. We need to experience new things, new people, new ideas and soon find comfort in them. It’s a cycle, a dangerous one at that.

In other words, I have serious writers block and I’m upset about it.

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