This Poetry Habit

is more journal than skill,
more inward than blog,
and it’s nice to have a record.

The days on which I do not poem, fine, very well, it didn’t happen today;
but if I go a month, that is a poem as well.

Maybe it is the despair of all the words, tasks, responsibilities, obligations, must, should, ought, could, would, will, expectation, deliberation piling on me in fast-paced attack on my sensibilities and sleep —

Or it is the despair of silence. No words, not even self.