Kassi's Thoughts

Ramblings of an Oddity

I used to write.  I mean really write.  I could sit down and within ten minutes I had something on my paper.  And it was good.  I used to have ideas just springing out of my head at the slightest possible nudge.  What the hell happened?  I realize that I've gotten older and maybe some stresses from life have gotten in the way of my muse; but I doubt it.  I'm happier now than I ever have been except that I can't write.  I think of ideas now and realize that someone else thought of them first.  Am I lazy?  Is that what it is?  Should I just set a certain time of my day aside to write?  But you can't really force creativity.  Maybe that's not the point though.  I don't expect to just sit down and write the next great American novel, but I do need to get back in the swing of things.  I also get distracted very easily and lose my train of thought, making me just a tad bitchy. Which is what happened right now, because I waited until my daughter got home to write. 

I took a creative writing course in college and I just loved it; I've never been more productive.  But once the class was over I just kind of stopped.  So last night my SO suggested that I take another class.  Mind you, he's never read a word I've written aside from emails, but he's confidant that I'm a good writer.  That does kind of bug me a little, but I try not to make a big deal out of it as he's still so supportive.  He's also an incredible judge of character :)  My mom tells me that I should just write like I talk because she feels I'm so funny, trouble is, that doesn't really translate well on the page.  So most of my writing is depressing.  You may notice that I don't use correct period placement when I write, mostly because I started out writing poetry andI use periods more as a guide of pauses instead of "this is where the sentence ends".  I figure it's the way of the future. 

So, in the hopes of pushing myself, here's a poem for your reading pleasure.  Feel free to comment on it if you like, though no pressure.  All material is copywrited, bastards.


The 8 o’clock parallel


Fogged brain fights
a daily civil war
fraught with consequences.

Heavy lids refuse to open,
declaring their side in battle.

Hands are treasonous,
elevating the volume.
they find snooze and pull
warm blankets
over goose-bumped shoulders.

10-minute cease-fire commences.




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