Tell me, what’s the cost of giving up?
                Why does it feel like help will never come?
                Maybe I’m the one I’m running from
                It’s too much to carry, it’s all getting heavy
                Lift me up.
                                –Poppy, The Cost of Giving Up

nah
dont wanna write a poem today
work was eight hours-a hell
bottom blocks buckled
brought the whole damn building down
just wanna go home
pour a glass a bourbon
fuck 
drink it from the bottle
no ones here to see
got saturday off
then five straight
tomorrow will be bed til two kinda day
a pajama day
im already gettin dressed
dont call me
dont text me
dont need no one but myself
least of all you
cause i know what you will say

Nah,
I don’t wanna write today
cause it gets hard
and nobody’s home.
There’s a shortage of creative energy
ideas stopped flowin and I’m
just lookin for a reason to give up.
So what’s another week without doing the the laundry?
What’s another drink when I’ve already had six?
What’s another thirty-second session
pullin up porn
and frantic masturbation
just to feel something?
I owe this to myself.

But nah.
I don’t want to write today
because that would take effort
that I’m not willing to give
yet this is a promise I made to myself:
to do a little bit every day-
keep the wheels spinnin, y’know?-
else the shame blows in
like a tornado to a home.
It doesn’t take much to level me;
that’s why I need to fortify my walls
so when willpower disappears
discipline can pick up the slack.

Because no.
I didn’t want to write a poem today
and maybe you didn’t or don’t either.
Raise your hand, man,
if this is sounding familiar
Maybe you stared at a blank page for half an hour
before declaring wwwhelp! I tried.
Give it another half hour,
give it two hours
give it all fucking day if you have to.
Do something that isn’t a slow destruction of yourself.
Develop a mantra to keep you rooted
when vice or ennui want to take up your time.
Call up a friend to talk you through the Empty.
Man was not meant to be alone.
Engage in a passion–whatever it may be-
and stay at it until you build something beautiful.
It get hard, but you can make it easier.
Diligence creates fulfillment.

For me, it’s in poetry.
I hammer out abortable words
before they disclose a couple lines I can use.
I italicize them
underline them
or put them in bold,
set them on the page like arms of a snowflake
while figuring out the in-betweens
forming crafting placing composing…

I said I didn’t want to write today
because it got hard
but look at us now.
We got ourselves a motherfucking poem.