Ah, crap.

So I have this friend who’s always encouraging me to write. And that’s great, lord knows I need it, my fear of being unemployed is so much stronger than my need to create that I just kept my head down and in a book until I had a good stable job, but now I’m in a place where its like pulling teeth cause I’m so far removed from any creativity. I’ve tried to set up a few poetry groups here, since nobody will let me join theirs, but I’m kinda worried I’ll wind up with a bunch of nutters mumbling at me and that’s not good for anyone.

So back to the friend – he has given me a due date for 2 poems, and I’m not going to lie, my first instinct was to snag two old ones and pass them off as new. The thing is, its hard for me to write unless I’m like horribly unhappy, that over caffeinated jittery unhappy, except sometimes then I haven’t done anything creative for months and I get this awful sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and write completely unrelated words like a list until I feel like I’ve purged it all.

I also think that he may be intending for me to read whatever drivel I come up with in front of people, which is worrisome because I’m always afraid that writing poetry makes me a self indulgent twit, and that’s probably at least a factor in why I never write any more.
I started going through some old journal last night, trying to get a start on something or at least an idea and there were a couple good lines in there, but not all that many – I wasn’t completely let down, but I was hoping for some diamonds, so I didn’t have to think. My main themes seemed to be: things that taste like metal, rotting flowers and drying vines. I think I used to focus on food a lot but it seems to have transitioned into plants, and those odd bits of scrap you’re likely to find at a marina. I guess I’m going to have to come up with something I wont be horribly embarrassed to read to someone I don’t know. Shit. How the fuck did I wind myself into this? I hate it more ‘cause it was my idea. Entirely.