An Unnamed Poem

I can never finish anything. I try and be creative, I really do, but my
right brain is just so hard to break into and the ideas I have are so painfully few
and far between that I just end going: what’s the point? Short stories, novels, poems, songs, each
unfinished project truly belongs to be complete, and whole, but I treat them so wrong by shoving
them in with the throngs of other unfinished…… things. I don’t know why I can’t finish them. I try and do things all in one sitting because
I know I have a huge problem with committing but I always end up getting cold feet and leaving
them at the alter Too bad you can’t write a novel all at once. Too bad you can’t conceptualize a song and
immediately have it start playing itself. The greatest artists have drive and I admire
them for that. How do I expect to thrive in a world of constant
creation, where art is being churned out faster than the speed of my imagination, meanwhile
my lack of motivation prevents me from making a meal more complicated than
toast? I yearn for the day when I finally win against
procrastination, when I put aside all my perturbation and I find myself in a situation where –

6 thoughts on “An Unnamed Poem

  1. woh! where did you go? is everything ok? you were on such a roll, and then, hey, no more?

  2. ! that ending! also, loved this. relate to it wholeheartedly, too, although for me it's probably because (within writing) i suck at plot and focus only on characters..

  3. I always find that idealizing and diving excessively deep into one idea until it’s complete is a good way to save yourself from the distractions; keep it at the center of your mind, use new ideas as its meals until it has grown to be whole. Naturally, as always, it can’t be forced lest it will be rushed and sloppy.

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