Sort of Apocalyptic poem #1

I’m talking myself around. In circles. Not around to any one particular place or point of voice. I’m restless and unproductive. Not that I’m necessarily a big fan of productivity, but I like to be able to write at least at little bit each day, at least a blog entry or something. But here, even though my brain knows I’m not right back where I was, sitting here, at this computer, in this house, everything just lodges, and gets stuck in a stupor of blah. The only word I want to type, the only word I even want to say is blah. It’s not even malaise or ennui, it’s just pure blah.

Numb blah. I sound like a really exciting person with a really exciting life when I say that.

I’m just having this pull towards wanting to create/not wanting to great. All of my energies all tangled up into expectation again, with this whole school thing. Yes, the school thing. What am I doing?

I feel like I’m making a huge mistake, I feel like I’m not doing enough, I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. Which I don’t. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m so afraid to be in debt.

I’m listening to Charlotte Martin’s “Veins”.

So, the debt thing. My brain makes this connection, seriously, this is how I think: school=debt=no money=having to work a crappy job=not able to work crappy job=being unemployed=not having anywhere to live/having to live back at my parents house=being sick all the time…and actually, I’m not entirely sure about the logical thought pattern continued, but somehow, it ends up with me either dying of some horrible disease, the end of the world, being violently murdered in my sleep, or being singed and painfully disintegrated by nuclear weapons in an apocalyptic third world war. Not to mention plain old heartbreak.

Negative thought patterns?Hmmm…

Seriously, does everybody think like this? It’s pretty unconducive to living a day to day life, so I have to assume that I’m of a relatively small minority of those with constant crazy brain.

And school. The only kind of school or material that I feel I should be studying is basic survivalist methods. The “how to live in the woods with only a knife and a well memorized encyclopedia of all of the non-poisonous edible plants of North America” kind of survival. Oh yeah, and maybe some self defense too. I can’t justify being a scholar, being a teacher, being a lawyer, I can sort of justify being a nurse, or a midwife, or a doctor, because those things have an immediate, emergency related impact. But anything else. Useless waste of time that I should be using to get prepared.

Crazy brain, I know. It’s embarrassing.

Who else wakes up in the morning and wonders if they should dress for wilderness survival, just in case. Who has this fear based sense of living where getting and being prepared for, literally, the worst that could possibly happen, is the only possible way to be.

I get that other people have anxiety. But it seems to be contained within the mundane. Not that the fear is any less, not that the feeling are any less, whether it’s worry about a paper, or a date, but answering each possibility with “ well, it doesn’t matter if I do that anyways because the world is just going to end horribly”, is just a little dramatic. Gets a little bit annoying.

Makes me sound really crazy. So I wrote a poem. Because it’s ok to be crazy if you’re a poet. It’s all in the name of art. I can be a winely lush then, too, and it’s all ok. Except for the liver. My poor over used, prescription chemically abused liver. Come on, liver, regenerate!

Sort of Apocalyptic poem #1

Caught by the wing
Pulled from the tree
To my nesting spot
Upended roots
Can I kill this bird
With a rock
Though the air
To the ground
And over the fire
No matches, no matches
My hands burning thin

Wearing my clothes
For seventeen days
Jeans dirt thick
Shoes speaking endeavored steps
Mouth to the ground
Listening for shoots

What’s ruined is left behind
Shoulders tensed to the wind
Bring ashes, bringing ashes swinging

No trees
To run to now
Rocks dropped on bones
Smashed the stones to dust
And the only repairs will be
Volcanic ones

A moment with my hands
Deep in the dirt
No breathing
No stillness in the sun
We only drink from the rain

And left all thoughts of mercy
In the pockets we sewed up
And left in shifting closets
A simple folding door
Unhinged

All veins have been suspended
And pipelines burst
As we have spread ourselves along
A wonder,
Which ground you are in
And whether you’re solid still

I’m barely here, for long.