Hello, beautiful faithful readers. Today, I have some strange, late-night poetry for you. It was inspired by writer’s blocks, editor’s blocks, filmmaking blocks, life blocks, and existential anxiety (which is always a precursor to any poetry I have ever written). I can’t sleep, so… Enjoy. Sorry.
Trapped on an island in the middle of the sea,
here I am, pointing fingers straight at me.
I can’t touch the bottom without getting wet.
I can’t throw myself into the sea.
What is out there? What are the sharp whisper-cries echoing across the way,
or surrounding my head like twirling birds?
Is it loneliness? Is it nothing? Is it chaos, again, all at once?
I look out from this island of people and stare at a blank canvas.
Why haven’t I picked up the brush?
Empty promises to myself spanning months…
Worrisome spinning yarn into mounds of nothing
Sorry I lied to you and myself.
I thought moving with the river would lead me elsewhere,
but instead it led me back here
to the island of cages.
It led me here,
to be with you.
Whirlpool of familiar strangers,
of familiar mind blocks…
I am sorry, again.
I’m not sure what I am doing at all,
but I know this isn’t right.
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Photo: Paul Klee. L’Ile engloutie (The sunken island), 1923.
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