Dazed and Confused

Poetry is a strange thing for me. So many writers say that they lose inspiration at times in their lives when they're happy - that they need some sort of negative emotion to draw from in order to be poetic. I find I'm the opposite, that during the worst times in my life, I was so overwhelmed with the ugliness of whatever the situation, that it was impossible to write a poem.

At this point, for reasons I couldn't even explain, I'm miserable. The sun is out the fllowers are blooming, it's warm and sunny and clear, and I don't give a damn. I only go outside when I have no choice, grocery shopping, doctor's appointments, whatever. The other day Trish stopped in and as much as I love her, I just didn't want to deal with her. I don't want to deal with anyone. I'm becoming a hermit, there's nothing out there I want to see or do. Fuck it.

And writing is a chore. Oh I'm writing, a poem a day for the National Poetry Month contest on Moontown Cafe, and about one a week for another challenge oriented thing I'm in right now. Vickie and I throw each other a challenge every once in a while too, and I write for them too. But I haven't just sat down and written for the sake of writing in weeks. There's just nothing there say.

I've been avoiding everyone. Everyone. I'd be more than happy to have no need to speak, I have nothing to say anyway. I've been burying myself in work type stuff - newsletters and mod duties and whatever. . .
it's easier than trying to figure out what this is, I don't want to know what this is, I just want to leave it alone, and basically to be left alone.

How utterly emo.