I wish I had a writing process.
If you would have asked me a
month ago, I would have told you
my process is
Write when I feel like it.
So why then, for the past 3 weeks,
have I felt like it, and then every
word feels like it has taken
a surprise vacation from my brain?

I hate writing.
Let me rephrase,
I hate saying I’m a writer,
then having nothing to show for it.
Where have all the words gone?

Even now, as I type this from my
thumbs while walking to a class
in Spain, I feel the weight of
unwritten words in the space
below my diaphragm.
I am in the most beautiful
city in the world and I
can’t get inspired for the life of me—
and here I am writing about writer's block.

How pretentious.

I hate being a writer,
It feels as if as soon as I gave
myself that title, my brain knew it had
to humble me so that I would stop saying
I am a writer,
And start saying
Oh, I just like to write sometimes.

Is it all not just for show?
Do I not just write to tell people that I do?

I’ve lost sight of the meaning
of why I write in the first place.
Let me use this rant
as a way to get my
head on straight and to
grab myself by the ankles
And start at square one.

I used to write about fun things,
like my best friend’s birthday party.
Just for the sole reason that
I had fun and felt loved
And I cared about them
So much that I
Couldn’t help but write a poem.

Do you know how that feels?

To feel so strongly that
The only outlet is to write.
I guess that is where
the idea of my writing process came from.
And the key to getting my words back.

I will chase that feeling,
the overwhelming poetness
feeling until all I can do
Is write, and write once more.