It’s been a while since
I last wrote, truly wrote.
It’s been a month since
my last real post,
a few weeks since
my last real attempt
at any sort of poem
or pretty words on a page.
And while fourteen days
may seem to be
an insignificant time,
for someone who once
based her life around writing,
it’s a shit ton.
A shit ton of lying—
dare I say, procrastinating--
but much more likely
it was neglect.
And thought I tried to fill the void
with this activity known as reading,
the void remained empty.
For seven days, I read.
And I say it like it was
an extraordinary achievement
(reading Blake, Huxley, Austen,
Wilde, Freud, and Jung, amongst
less celebrated thrillers and chick lits)
but it was not.
So here I am,
back with my pen,
spitting verse on the page,
without rhyme or reason.
To make it a habit,
for I might just crack it,
this 10,000 hours of practice shit.
But hey,
let’s not get carried away.
Because right now,
all I really want
is a valid sense of purpose
for these faulty ten minutes.