another day another dollar
and nothing new to say from this end
i never liked diaries anyway i never needed any help being self-absorbed
and the blankness still intimidates me -
who am i to be filling up empty space with nothing but my own repetitious thoughts?
and who are you to be reading it - who are you to be interested?
i don't like to write about my life
it seems pointless
trivial
as long as it stays in my head i can feel like it matters
as soon as pen touches paper - or fingers touch keys -
the cliche overwhelms me
and i cringe.
scratch it out violent and slam the notebook shut
and look quiet out the window
("don't push me, cuz i'm close to the edge..")
but i like transcribing my thoughts, sometimes
as though my intellect alone has some inherent worth that experience lacks
i like words i've always liked words
but either i or they are inadequate -
there's a sense of incompleteness in everything i write
and irrelevancy.
my everpresent arrogance stifles the desire
and prevents even the attempt
because if i can't do something well...
well.
enough said,
and nothing said
perhaps really it is better that way -
one can almost build a reality
on things left unsaid.
next
