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I haven't written poetry in a long time. Admittedly, I never stopped… - Salvador Dali in a lawn chair.
I'm invisible without 3D glasses.
lost_angel
lost_angel
I haven't written poetry in a long time. Admittedly, I never stopped writing it. Bits of it flit into my head throughout the day and night, some staying long enough to be written down in snippets of something more grand than I can commit to. Only recently have I started writing fully again, putting those jumbled lines from previous into a more exacted, knitted work. However, picking up poetry again can be frustrating, and I often feel I've lost my ability with words, if not my love for them.

Here, this might explain it better:



the page is blank
white, clean, antiseptic
intimidating in its sterility
in a rush, I fill the left margin with doodles
triangles and swirls to taint the page’s purity with my black ink

I wait
and think
and throw my head back on the couch
tapping the page with my pen
The words still don’t come.
elusive, evasive
or are they just lost?

Only clinical words are written
exact in their meaning,
no confusion,
but devoid
of the strength I wish to give them.

sitting on the floor
with a plastic blue lap desk
balanced on my thighs
I pick at the scabs that have crusted over
the wounds
in my writing

It hasn’t healed properly.
I haven’t healed properly.

using a jagged fingernail as a chisel
I scrape away the layers
of verbose articulation.
In the crevasse
of a pitted and hardened gash
I find a word
thick with webby strands of my tissue
my mouth falls open as I concentrate
eyes focused on the word
twisting it
a sharp tug
and it’s free.

I place it tenderly
sloppy with my own blood
on the page.
I sketch more doodles around it
framing of graphite ribbons.
A gentle smile
the lines of my jaw tensed with silenced pain
a tiny salve of accomplishment.

It looks a little bit like poetry
but there’s still much more page to fill.

mood: happy happy
music: Danny Wright - "Fourth Lake"

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