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Monday, September 15, 2014

Fickle beast

Laid out

Lifting my foot
I step away from
this path
laid out for me
by the well meaning

I step away from
infinity to unknown
walking my fears
along with me
trusting in the fates

This path
unrestrained without limits
within the unformed
sentences brought about
by times guiding light

Laid out for me
is nothing like
what was meant to be
giving me hope
that somehow I'll be free

By the well meaning
this path was laid out
For not me
for you and you and you
Never going to be

Chris McQueeney    9/15/14    10:38 P.M.

I am currently typing at a public library...And am grateful for it's presence. This writing thing is such an outlet, but at the same time it is a fickle beast. It needs to be fed, and nurtured. I have gone through a dry-spell; not able to put my thoughts together in a coherent fashion. It is frustrating to say the least to sit down to write and only be able to put something together that feels woody and contrived. It is also frustrating to write while exhausted. It takes energy to write, almost as much as moving bricks. So when the inspiration is there with the energy I try to take advantage of it. Today I am just plodding along.....................


kj said...

i'd say this poem is a pretty good plod.

hang in, chris. write on napkins. ponder, plod and hold on to patience. it's a tough life, this writing deal.


kj said...

oh, and this:

Do you know what I was smiling at? You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It’s never been anything but your religion. Never. I’m a little overexcited now. Since it is your religion, do you know what you will be asked when you die? But let me tell you first what you won’t be asked. You won’t be asked if you were working on a wonderful, moving piece of writing when you died. You won’t be asked if it was long or short, sad or funny, published or unpublished. You won’t be asked if you were in good or bad form while you were working on it. You won’t even be asked if it was the one piece of writing you would have been working on if you had known your time would be up when it was finished—I think only poor Soren K. will get asked that. I’m so sure you’ll only get asked two questions. Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out? If only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions. J.D. Salinger