On Delineation

I have recently been thinking about the increasing ocurrence of my poetry in my blog. It did not take long for me to realize that this was probably connected in some way to my discipline of writing a poem every day. I continually find it remarkable what a dynamic outlet my writing has become. My journal is quickly filling as at least one page every day receives the mark of a poem. I cannot wait to go back through these poems someday and see what it is like to re-experience the feelings that went into all of these scratchings, as I am sure I will be able to do. The more I write, the more I begin to see my poems falling into very distinct categories. There are nature poems. I seem to write an awful lot of these. Then there are venting poems or expression poems or whatever you want to call them. These are the poems that say what is going on in my heart...my feelings. I write a lot of these as well, but I share fewer of them. There are also my thought out poems. These usually involve a bit more structure, they are centred around a specific theme, and they are usually longer. Finally, there are poems about writing. I am not sure yet whether those poems are more often written on nights when I am to exhausted to be creative or if they are just as creative as any others. This is hard to say because I write most of these poems late at night, and I am often exhausted. The problem is that I am bound to write a poem every day, but I usually only have free time late at night. I wonder if the quality of my work would go up if I wrote in the morning or afternoon when I am more awake. Who knows? Regardless, last night I wrote a poem that very much amused me. I do not know if it is acceptable to be amused with your own work, but I definitely was in this case. The poem falls into the latter of the aforementioned categories, and I think it pretty accurately describes much of my writing process.

Those Nights

Sometimes
My mind
Races faster than my pen
I could write the greatest poem
The world has ever known
If only
My fingers
Were faster
Fast enough
To catch the thoughts as they come
My pen in rhythm
With the beats
Of my heart
My overflowing
Heart
Pouring out emotion
Faster than my pen can set it down
The ink flows like blood
Coursing with feeling
Not flowing fast enough
Before emotions
Are lost
They pass
Unwritten
Those are the nights
I feel I could write
Something
Something that is
A good poem
A great poem
Something that is great
Yes
Tonight
Is not one of those nights
It is one of those
Other nights
The pen
Is heavy
And slow
And every
Word
Is a labour
My pen would love to race on
If the ink starts flowing
Let it flow
But
My mind
Misfires
Thoughts come too slow to
Lines are disjointed
I wonder why
What
Ramble, ramble, ramble
The writing continues
But the words mean nothing
I'm rolling a ball up a hill
To see it roll behind me
The ink
Dries up
Waiting for a though
Dries
Like a wound
That's when it really hurts
Still the poem tries
Even though its dying
Slowly
With sporadic
Breaths
That are so painful
Stumbling
Yes
This is one of those nights.