Photo by Andressa Voltolini on Unsplash

Poetry Lives in Me

The poem in the mind swims

Anchored not, she needs to see colors

Only the ocean can provide

The sensation of floating, purity, transparency

The poem isn’t a modern invention

She’s as old as stone-cold storytelling

Nature is a storytelling of evolution

Language is quill on the page of social life

A social life that occurs in our own self-dialogue

We are a relationship of many voices

We are on the verge of you-and-me-and-we

It’s not so black and white you know

We are intersectional creautres

Vivid in the inter-subjective inbetweens

I let you into me and you bury yourself in my mind

Not for long, because our brains are separate

There is no script of how to act finding poetry

Poetry happens like in a moment

Spontaneous and ruthless with her dictates

Don’t try to contain her or force her into your form

That’s not living, but a construct of your making

Poetry is chaotic and free

We construct new stages and misfortunes

So that she might pick us, or at least I do —

My muses are more like instruments than prophets

My meditations more like poems than silence

My exercise more like love affairs than retreats

And that’s how poetry lives in me.

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