I have wanted to do this for a while—try something like hybrid writing and mix poetry with reflection. Writing about my day in a regular blog format would probably bore me—and my readers (you are awesome, by the way!). So this time I am slightly opening the door to the process of writing itself.

Fragmentation of the mind

This is not poetry—
this is the mess around it…

a girl trying to write,
getting distracted by her own thoughts…

staring at the empty screen,
taking a sip of coffee,
scrolling through social media…

or something like that.

How much more poetry can I write before my fingers run dry?

If it’s supposed to sound poetic…
it should be a pen, not fingers…

Last time I tried to write a poem with a pen,
it exploded,
and the paper was covered in ink.

umm…

Do fingers even run dry?
Perhaps thoughts can run dry.

What is it like being a poet, after all—
or a writer?

Last week, I wrote one line:

He touched me with his hands tied behind his back.

I stared at this line for two hours.
Scrapped it.
Wrote it again.
Panicked quietly at the thought
that nothing else would come.

Another hour passed.

Then I wrote it differently—
and somehow, in fifteen minutes,
I birthed a poem-like creature
about a bird instead.

pspspsps: it was for a six-sentence corner on my blog—you can read it here.

What else can I turn people—or my imaginary friends—into?

How many more creatures can you be—
a giraffe,
a bug,
or do you prefer to remain undefined?

If, hypothetically speaking, a man were to be a giraffe,
how would I even put it into words?

He reached for me
like a giraffe reaches
for the leaves at the top of a tree.

Googles what giraffes eat.
Acacia?

Seems like he fancies acacia…

But acacia turns bitter the longer you eat it…

Uhh—
what about a bug?

There is a flesh-eating bug in my ribcage.

It keeps gnawing at my insides,
begging for a way out.

That is how droplets of my being
become art:

dripping from a wound—

drip, drip—

one word after another.

Or out of my fingers—
my fingers apparently have a lot to say these days.

The words just keep appearing
on the screen,
one after another.

But what they are saying
is up to interpretation.

I think poetry is the art
of putting feelings into something—
something non-intrusive,
quiet—

and somehow,
every person who reads
reads according to their own
understanding

How many times have I read The Night in Lisbon,
only to understand it differently
every single time?

PS:

I love this book.

Poetry—

Today I tried to catch a firefly that came to me
in the state between sleep and consciousness.
It was whispering me a poem,
but it seemed to be in a distant, foreign tongue,
and so it just…
yeeted away when I wanted to jot it down.

—or an afterthought…

Yesterday, while falling asleep,
I thought I made up something genius
in my head.

In the morning, however—

it was gone.

Rude firefly.
It flew away with my Pulitzer piece…

I have also been reading a lot of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath lately…

I remember being told, as a young girl, by my literature teacher:
“If you want to be a writer—
read a lot.”

So I just read,
and read,
and read,
and read.

But by soul, I was a writer already.

I read
because I wanted to write.

Not the other way around...

Links to more of my work:

If you like reading stories: Six-Sentence Stories, Short Stories, Romance and All That, Dead Poet

Or poetry : On the margins of the First Draft

and more reflections than poetry: On the Margins of the Second Draft

My band "Chaos in Spring" can be listened to on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.

Links to more of my work:

If you like reading stories: Six-Sentence Stories, Short Stories, Romance and All That, Dead Poet

Or poetry : On the margins of the First Draft

and more reflections than poetry: On the Margins of the Second Draft

My band "Chaos in Spring" can be listened to on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.