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.
13. 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.
There's more of my work:
If you like short stories I have them scooped up into one category (including the six-sentence stories).
The Nervous Poet at the SSC&B can be followed here.
There is also poetry.
More personal entries can be found at the Blog.
There's also the IT studies blog in Estonian and "Chaos in Spring" on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.
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