Poetry Journal

I find journaling difficult. Trying to put my thoughts down, verbatim, in real time, doesn't seem to accurately capture the truth of what I'm feeling. About a year or so ago, I decided to try and communicate my thoughts instead through poetry, focusing more on imagery and the sensation of what I'm needing to express, as opposed to the feeling as intellectualized by thought. It's become a favorite and somewhat compulsive habit. I do it only for me and give myself permission to write what is often very bad poetry. But even when it's bad, it's honest.


I've decided to share some of what I've written here in an attempt to a) hold myself accountable to a self-promise I made to be less precious about my writing, and b) in case anyone might find it useful to their own practice, or amusing, or otherwise enjoyable. 

It hurts but not all the time

And my talent for dwelling

Is no fair competitor to

My penchant for distraction

You said things

But my body is full of forgiveness and


And a deep deficit of animus

And all the conviction I lack

Turns my malaise to content

And anyway

Justice lacks a certain sex appeal

That thrives in mercy's deep warm waters

And no you didn't ask

But that's my secret

And I treasure those

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I have enough time

So I think I'll make tea

And be me for awhile longer

Before I become that

Better Thing

I think about so often

I imagine it's not all it's

Cracked up to be

By that I only mean

That one day I think I'll get there

And be so surprised to find

That it's still just me

Taking another moment

Before becoming that

Better Thing


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My love is getting in the way

It makes my reason


And happy theoretically

Oh how it thrills to long

But my love, she needs a home

And a rack to hang her hat on

And a fire just to look at

'Cause my love's already warm

My love is getting in the way

Of all the work I need to do

That poor critic in my head

Went off somewhere and fell in love

–And died

Smothered slack by tempting sweetness

Can you blame him?

My love is getting fat

From all the self soothing and grooming

She is beautiful and round

With oh such tender much to give

How could I do a thing

With a love like her at rest?

She calls all my attention

And laughs at all my lists

Deadlines are looming in the clouds

But my love, she loves the rain

And all my sense of time

Sits in boxes on the floor

With all my obligations–

They can wait another day

Let them pile and compound

My love is getting in the way

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