Writing is a weird beast.
Like an ayahuasca vine.
once it is in you, is always there, perhaps dormant
or like a
a fox sleeping in its hole
wanting to be whole
it's thick, like ayah.
Gets into your fibers,
it roots itself,
takes hold…
I wrote as a child and now,
THEY say write Ivy!
and so I do,
and even though I have not studied it.
Or crafted it.
Or polished it.
Or even spelled it correctly (repeatedly),
it is still there,
as though it had never left,
and had been growing
quietly,
all along
informing me,
forming me,
seeking expression,
expressing from a place not previously known,
shedding light from inside,
on places not personal.
asking you to touch your own
divine.
