This was a poet …

She wrote on scrap papers, chocolate wrappers , other side of a recipe . She wrote sitting on the small tea table facing the window in her bedroom, she wrote while baking breads for her brother’s children . She was possessed with words that had wings .

Did she had dates with death ? As it is portrayed in Dickinson. I don’t know . But she seemed to live in her imagination. A love affair with the unreal .

Was it a choice or a necessity that she shut herself from the world ? Cannot be said for certain. Some says it’s epilepsy, some it’s depression. But I think it was a choice . A sensitive empath overwhelmed with the stimulation of a harsh world .

Poetry comes from passion they say . Requited or unrequited. Was she in love with multiple men who never returned her feelings or was it always been Susan . But perhaps a poet’s real love is poetry . A secret affair with the language.