Being A Recluse

Well, I haven’t written in a while. I suppose I have been too busy being sick and living from day to day to care about up dating my blog. But since I am now the road to recovery I think it’s about time to do something new.

I don’t really have any great poetry to add just this thing(Below) I flung together in my spare time. I exactly find that I have less and less of this priced commodity. I made a resolution to get straight A’s this semester and so I have been brutally cutting down my free time and reigning in my talkative nature so I can hide in the library and study. It’s a strange sort of existence because I am at school and I see my friends but I hardily ever have time to stop and talk to them. Unless, of course, they are in my class.

But I can’t say that I am unhappy at all. I feel I have control of everything school wise and so I feel good about everything. Well, almost everything. Creatively I feel stale. I haven’t written a decent poem since the Madonna poem and I almost feel afraid to. It’s almost as if I’ve reached a point where I have to change my poetry because I’ve reached a turning point. If I don’t change my poetry I don’t move forward; every poem I have tried to write has not come out the way I want it. I feel that the sentiments I express have been expressed before and my words are flat and dull beside the rest.

During my romantics class I’ve felt this oppression keenly because the romantics seemed to feel everything so sharply and wholeheartedly; perhaps I have become so set on doing well that I have put blinders on my poetic eyes. I have my goal and I’m going to reach it, but at the expanse of what? That I cannot write? That I cannot create anything new because I am bombarded with homework and a job?

I was in the middle of a poetry writing frenzy. Once when a friend of mine once said that she wanted to write poetry, but she said, “I have no clay to work with.”
At the time I thought, “That’s a great line for a poem.” But now it is the sad and upsetting truth for me as well.

Abstract
“This camel isn’t going through the eye of a needle,” she said arranging
her swishy broomstick skirt around her bony broomstick legs, “I’m
writing abstract poetry these days—didn’t you know?”
I didn’t but pretended I did.
I didn’t tell this woman that I loathed her—the kind
of person who writes for the affect of it all
and not because she needs too. She doesn’t have the genuine
bone in her body. I know it because once she brought a poem
to a reading and said, (flinging her stringy hair over her shoulder,)
“This isn’t what I want but let’s see what you guys think.”
What she meant was, “Will you re-write this poem for me?”
She didn’t care anymore about her writing than the over dyed locks
she nearly wiped in our faces.
I watched in surprise as everyone in the group disemboweled her poem,
taking pieces of it unto themselves and returning it; a mess of images and feelings
that didn’t match. I watched but didn’t help.
So I turned to the woman and said, “Yeah, poetry is like that,” I answered, “Abstract.”