On Writing

My voice is the dead air on the sea-span channel.

My words feel as flat as when I used to play the violin.

My writing makes me shriveled up, crinkled, and embarrassed.

I can’t be a writer when it's so daunting for me,

I tried so hard not to try.

Like Bukowski had told me.

But something inside of me told me to write regardless of these insecurities.

The words don’t flow out of me like rivers, they are in bulk and chunky,

And white like milk.

But, I still need them. 

So it takes some brain power, a steady stream of uncorrected consciousness

And questionable reassurance,

That I'm writing for myself purley and not someone, or something else.

Now, I have this overhelming anxiousness on the back of neck,

That a person gets when they feel the pressure of expectations,

The pressure of stress, and the pressure of failure.

So I decided to write,

To yell out the words, that I couldn't think of on the spot, out to the world,

When I felt something unsavory and I didn't think that quickly.

The ones that I felt in the back of my mouth

And could taste on my tougne,

But, I couldn't make crawl out.

I shove the jumbled words through an empty word document.

In hopes, I can pull out a clean sentence in the muck that was my thoughts.