One of those nights
I don't think I've matured in my writing enough to write about humanity as a whole. I can write about me and my reality (and mostly how it's a fallacy), and I can write about other people, but I haven't yet achieved that overarching "this is what humanity and like and I sound wise, not pretentious" quality.
For example, the first stanza of C.K. William's "Risk":
Difficult to know whether humans are inordinately anxious
about crisis, calamity, disaster, or unknowingly crave them.
These horrific conditionals, these expected unexpecteds,
we dwell on them, flinch, feint, steel ourselves:
but mightn't our forebodings actually precede anxiety?
Isn't so much sheer heedfulness emblematic of desire?
On the other hand, there are a lot of good poems, and poets, that don't address big ideas.
My mother is completely convinced that something is wrong with me, as in, something wrong with my life that I absolutely must tell her. I keep telling her I'm alright, which I am, sort of. I could tell her about the mental breakdown, my duct tape solution, and my escapist tactics, but she would recommend pills and therapy, neither of which I'm interested in. I have a very strange relationship with my parents.
Meanwhile, I think they are going to make me take enough credits next term to be a full time student so I can keep my health insurance. I don't want to. Not one bit.
For example, the first stanza of C.K. William's "Risk":
Difficult to know whether humans are inordinately anxious
about crisis, calamity, disaster, or unknowingly crave them.
These horrific conditionals, these expected unexpecteds,
we dwell on them, flinch, feint, steel ourselves:
but mightn't our forebodings actually precede anxiety?
Isn't so much sheer heedfulness emblematic of desire?
On the other hand, there are a lot of good poems, and poets, that don't address big ideas.
My mother is completely convinced that something is wrong with me, as in, something wrong with my life that I absolutely must tell her. I keep telling her I'm alright, which I am, sort of. I could tell her about the mental breakdown, my duct tape solution, and my escapist tactics, but she would recommend pills and therapy, neither of which I'm interested in. I have a very strange relationship with my parents.
Meanwhile, I think they are going to make me take enough credits next term to be a full time student so I can keep my health insurance. I don't want to. Not one bit.