Wihout Two Years of Poetry

Sunday

was like any other day. I just stayed on the Internet. I'm also dealing with LUVOX. It seems to have taken a back seat, which is good. It has decided to work with me. I get on IRC for only a few minutes and I am proud of myself because I could spend the entire day on it. I read email and fixed up my calendar, updating it.

My brother scheduled us for a number of readings in the city and I made sure to put them down in the calendar. I want to try to make them all. It's just that there are so many of them, it's impossible to make them all. Even my poetry writing has slowed to a stop. My brother once told me that he had writers block when it came to his poetry for two years. TWO YEARS?? Shit.

You've got to be kidding me. It's just that I don't want to write about what everyone else is writing about. By not being homeless I have have lost my source of creativity. I was where I was writing a poem a day. Now, I'm stuck like a fly in amber. I don't want to write about flowers or dewdrops on leaves. Neither do I want to write about me. Maybe the characters here in the SRO? That might be an idea.

The day melts like candle wax. I am not hungry for lunch. My appetite has been curbed. I ate half of a sandwich, well, I choked it down. I get tired by midday, my eyes keep rolling in my head so I crawl into bed. I sleep until Eight, waking up groggy. It's getting harder to wake up. My brother pops up on IM and we work on the grant proposal for a few minutes.

The long shadows of the night have entered into my room. The room is empty, there is no sound. I don my headsets and listen to music, and smile at my appreciation of being alone. It is growing hot in my room. I am naked again. My mouth is dry constantly, like a desert dry.

Maybe I should write a poem about that.
I have three days of freedom left

Hobobob