Yesterday, another poem went missing from my fingers. I was typing it, slowly, onto reluctant white boards, when the internet betrayed. The poem was gone.
It was a tired poem. Tiring, and about tiredness. The fatigue of unread books on the shelf, of slowly rotting food, and damaged electronics. I had other images from broken lives that could pass as tired little observations. Mostly, they were just random things, thrown together.
The white boards of the internet are perhaps not places for poetry. It’s too white. Or not white enough. Both, usually. Yet, it’s a comfortable place to scribble runaway thoughts into. Then they are not running anymore. But are they poems?
The morning is a feverish mixture of cloud and sun. My fluctuating temperature matches well with it. The curtains seem to be waving goodbye by the beats of an old disco song. Have there been any sad disco songs?
Why are we sad? And tired? What goes on in our dreams that we wake up not wanting to wake up. What poems have you been reading that when you look to the street from the roof of the tallest building, you don’t see the many many people walking, but only your splattered corpse, and an ecstatic release of pain?
And if that is what you see, why do you keep walking back and joining the many many people you couldn’t see?
Losing poems feels like a miscarriage. As if I know how miscarriages feel. As if I have written anything that is more than a collection of odd repeating words, searching for a meaning. But it hurts, the loss of poems. It hurts like heartbreaks. Like despairing over a spilled bottle of water in the desert.
What I mean is, I am sad and tired and this is going nowhere. As all things, and none.