poem: writing process

I thought it would be more beautiful than this.

The writing process, I mean.

I thought it would feel like I’d done something by the end. Done meaning accomplished. Accomplished meaning I’d earned the ability to ask for something meaning the background frequency is silent. Tinnitus of the lungs.

I thought that I could follow something rather than tug it(me) along on a rope on a cliff. It’s heavy, your own weight. I’d rather carry someone else. I thought I was past writing weird sentences.

I thought I’d know something, someone by the last period, quotation, however the conclusion comes (I haven’t written it). I thought that at least by the time the conclusion is written, I’d read back to myself what I’d imagined this to be. I thought a book was ready-made for my hands. I thought it wouldn’t feel like I’m lying to you. (So many you’s. Which is it?)

I thought, at least, it wouldn’t feel like this. Or, if it did, that maybe there’d be a day when it stopped. I’m young–I know I’ve got a lot to learn about the writing process. No matter how tidy this appears, do not believe it. This sentence is merely a survival technique. Chapters only come after the fact.