I have all the words these days. They keep coming. But they’re the fast ones that disappear if you don’t catch them. I have four notebooks going. One new. One big. One medium. One just finished but in need of edits and notes and more work. The poetry won’t stop. None of it is any good or even needs to be. That’s not the purpose really. It’s more just that I’m actively catching the words that are moving.
It’s disorganized. And messy.
Words are crossed out. Bits are rewritten over and around.
The pens are inconsistent as I’ve grabbed what I can get to the fastest.
This isn’t like me. I like consistency. I’ve been refilling the same pen for years. Buying the same notebooks over and over.
I chose how my words happened.
And now they seem to be happening to me.
I know this won’t last. It never does. Soon, I’ll catch my breath. That’s how it goes, I know. I’ve been here before. So many years ago. Then it was with coffee and too many cigarettes and late nights and not at traffic lights or in between reminds to little hands to wash with soap.
For now, I’ll stack my notebooks next to my bed at night and push them in and out of my bag in the morning. Over. And over.
I have words to catch.