Sometimes on a Friday night, even when you’re tired and worn, and even when it’s late and no one else in your house is awake, you still find inspiration. You’re not sure from where, because your brain is dead and your back is sore and you’re slightly sad for no reason and way too sober. You find a poem in the nothing and that’s pretty cool.
One of these days I’m going to assemble all of the commentary I’ve written on here. I bet I’ll find many poems hidden there too amidst the blocks of unrefined text.
By the way, apparently my last post was my 500th poem. I got a notification on my phone shortly after I published it. Cheers to 501 poems on She’s in Prison. Thanks for sticking around for the journey.
The original first line of this poem was “Started from not knowing what to write about.” I haven’t been writing much lately, which creates a void in my creative heart. I crave expression, whatever method it may come in: writing, singing, interpretive dancing under the influence of many glasses of wine, etc. This week’s been expressionless and I hate that repression of my inner child that needs to be heard, needs to shout out how I’m feeling and run around in circles without care of judgment or behavioral norms.
I put myself in a box this week. Don’t be reckless, Leanne. Don’t go out on the weekdays. Don’t drink so much wine. Stop sending your friends so many pointless texts. Do more yoga and eat salad. Don’t spend unwarranted money.
It’s like in trying to be the “better,” more responsible “adult” I lost a piece of myself along the way. One of my friends commented a few days ago that it seemed like I had lost my playfulness, my sarcastic positivity and joy for what I love. I told her I didn’t know what was wrong with me. There wasn’t anything specific to complain about. Nothing was wrong, and yet everything.
This weekend I’m crawling back out of that pointless box, starting with this much needed poem and this journal entry that has taken over this blog post.