Next up in our series of pieces from Crossroads III, we have “The Poem Won’t Write Itself” by Samuel Piller. The arc of this poem is especially interesting and gratifying. As always, look for a new poem each week! And thank you Samuel!
Fresh Page,
New start.
Previous scribbles in the trash bin are now
Untitled 1,
Untitled 2.
Nothing.
Nothing on the page,
Nothing in the head.
Sucked in by the swirling vortex that is
Netflix.
What is left to do when
You have a blank page?
Divine assistance?
Whiskey?
The need for perfection,
The desire for excellence.
You try to be funny.
Self-aware.
A real Walt Whitman sort of poem.
You start to say things like,
Fresh Page,
New Start.
OMG.
I am getting goosebumps while writing this.
Will my readers?
Meters are confining,
Safe.
You.
You
Are truly dangerous.
Watch out moms,
I am writing free verse.
I may be delusional but what is new.
Eyes wide with cocaine, sorry,
Adderall. (Close enough)
Studying won’t happen by itself.
College won’t happen by itself.
The poem won’t write itself.
Like babies on fire,
We scream.
Me, Myself, and I.
My parents.
My brother.
My baby.
I need for this to be read.
Gone are the days where You
Write just to write.
Losing yourself in deep parts of your mind.
A place that makes your scalp tingle
And serene smiles come over your face.
I am going to be ok, everything will work out.
No, every time when you just let go,
A pit forms in your stomach.
Guilt takes hold of your thoughts.
If I relax I will get so far behind.
Shut Up Netflix, Youtube.
Stupid past self
Why can’t you be productive?(There is a point where You get so stressed that you can’t do the work you stressed about.)
Lost love of learning, reading, daydreaming.
Rekindling the love of learning
While talking about the Genocide of the
Native Americans, is a weird feeling.
Pure, unadulterated information.