Frustration rises lately when images do not fall into an established order— or syllable counts fail to match the cadence of my natural stride— due to the brief nature of tanka (waka) poems, one expects the internal voice to replicate a quick scene without the need for revision, without altering word or verb tenses.

Partly the frustration dwells in the expectation for a strong sense of autobiography in the daily verses— taking a moment from the current frame of time, then expanding on the experience beyond a casual epiphany— twisting a reality into an unreality, a tension between fact and subtle invention, partial dream.

With restrictions such as these, the burden to find something to write intensifies, and then, flees into the underbrush of the blank page.


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