Part of my poetry and reflections project, Margins of the First Draft—2-5 percent reality, and the rest is theatrical melodrama. I was a huge fan of William Shakespeare back in the day, and I wanted to incorporate that style into my writing at the time.

This is why the whole collection perhaps feels so old and disconnected from how most people write nowadays. But it was part of my evolution as a writer, so the contrast here is actually quite striking when I compare the two poems.

(Authors Note)

Foolish Girl

My foolish heart,

Like my mothers favorite vase

Plummeting from the shelf I could not reach

And beneath my feet

A thousand tiny shards

With my tears, flowing from my eyes

My love, a runoff I was drowning in

My mothers’ arms around my shaking, frail, husk

“All is going to be alright my child”

Poetry on the Margins #13 Tiny Hands, Heavy Heart

My own mother always told me —
whenever I told her that my hands are so tiny (which they really are) —
that my heart is full.

My father figure told me
I was floating, someplace far away,
not really here.

But being here was a tad bit painful,
and I guess I always felt every ache
very deeply.

I feel honoured and blessed
to be able to write about things —
in a way they feel honest
and raw.

While writers are known to be liars.