A Tiny Sketchbook

So I just wrote a poem. Or rather forced it out of me. I quite dislike it. It's just missing something, that I'm sure my old poems used to have when I was still feeling creative and ached to write. But then again, maybe that depends on how you look at it. Maybe I used to be able to write better poems because I didn't give a fuck about how it turned out. Instead of what I was doing now, weighing words against eachother, changing sentences, rearranging, staring at the page, wondering what it was that I wanted to say.

A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.

Things I couldn't even share here.

I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.

Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR