This just in... President Obama is an American citizen.

How did we not already know this? I mean come on, how many times has this been laid to rest? GET OVER IT.

That's all I'm saying about that.

What I really want to talk about is what I can't talk about. Or at least where I draw the line of personal but still public enough to share and too personal. Because right now I'm kinda stuck in limbo. I have things that I'm talking about in my personal life but sharing online is too personal. (And because I know someone out there is thinking it, still not pregnant. Just so we're clear.) So I kind of don't have a lot to talk about, but I do. It leaves me with writers block.

I know I've always been compelled to write, and I mainly write poetry apart from this blog. Although I don't write as much as I used to. I've been told I'm a really good poet who should seriously consider publishing, but I know a lot of poets are told that. I also remember in high school junior French class our teacher (Madame Case if you really want to know) asked all of us impromptu to write a short poem in English on the back of one of our pop quizzes. Our names were not on the pop quizzes as it was simply an exercise, nothing we were being graded on. And she drew mine out and read it after they were all passed to the front of the class. I only remember I wrote about how I could hear the mourning dove. She asked who wrote it and I raised my hand rather embarrassed as I don't like public attention. And I learned she loved it which made me happy despite the embarrassment. I tend to write sad poetry but I guess I think most all poetry is sad, so perhaps it's just my perception. Below is an unfinished poem that I love so far. Most poems I write fast, they just flow out but this one I know I want to get right, and it's taking its time.

Discipline

This is a practice of discipline

But I smell of a strange wind

Is this discipline inbounds?

A luminescent ray sloping down

This is a practice of discipline

But I feel like an unfound land to you

Umber and canary

Sights you’ve never gleaned

But my discipline is key

Necessitating cadence in hooves and sharps

The sun plays

On the burnt hills

Rolling and burning new pathways

While I am in a practice of discipline

Trying to wire myself back to you

I remember laughing at your complexity

Under arching my discipline

Becoming this strange wind

Losing the connection

Finding that you were across seas

Mistaken that you were in my beating chest