fallowing the fields

I haven’t been doing much writing-writing lately, like the kind I could submit to magazines and journals. Some of that is because I’m too busy trying to vibrate out of my skin and into outer space from anxiety; some of that is because I’m not sure what I want to be writing about.

I started writing poetry out of a need to exorcise some feelings about stuff going on with my family and found it to be something that I was decent at. I’ve read a lot of poetry in the last few weeks, though, while we’ve been camped out in my wife’s parents’ house, and I at least have some ideas of… aspirations, I guess? I think I am less interested in making the everyday epic and fantastic and affirming and more in the slow consideration of observations or memories.

Maybe I should just start keeping a journal of things I see or feel or remember that stand out?

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