Part of my poetry collection, Margins of the First Draft—I know how this poem was written. This one I remember: I was listening to an Egyptian singer, and I was struck by how he conveyed obsessive love. I wanted to borrow that style, because it was so strong and somehow unhinged that I wanted something like it in my own writing.
Desperation
What is the worth of my love
If I can not paint the city walls
With the colour of his eyes
Poetry on the Margins #15 The Worth of My Love
It's the writer’s ache —
to immortalize this feeling of admiration,
desperation, longing, ache.
Whatever you wanna call it — it is.
Otherwise, what was this feeling worth?
If I can't create from it,
grow with it,
carry it with me,
remember it...
Did it even
exist?
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