Postcard 10

Some days are easy, effortless
The words just pour out
Overflow faster than I can write, but ten
There comes the
Sometimes I'm plagued by
Big Ideas
Other days, it's rhyme
I lack the discipline and
Consistency and have no
Sense of Time
The judgy internal monologue
Makes me throw so much away
It is surprising, really, that
I make it through each day
To fill each white space feels like
A battle which I wage
So it is a huge accomplishment
To make it to the end of a page
Yet here we are, right here, right now
It's over, is it not?
At some point, we all just accept
We get what we got

Full disclosure: I wrote an entirely different poem and then decided it was crap and trashed it. Then I regretted not even writing it down because maybe it didn't suck? Who knows now? Sometimes writer's block isn't about the act of producing, it's about not listening to your worst critic, or at least, making a copy.


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