Poetry used to be a calming distraction.
Now, I find myself waking
in the middle of the night with fingers
itching to scribble vague lines.
Trying to write anything else seems folly too, now.
Even official documents split into poetry.
My blood hums with poetic license.
If I was a poem, I’d be a haiku, and not just because I’m short.
Haiku are simple. And I certainly
feel that way.
I want to write poetry like I can sing other people’s songs:
without thought or effort,
the sounds merely
flowing from me as the
ink from this pen.
I write my poetry in disjointed lines;
my teacher once gave this a name yet I cannot remember it,
only that she followed words of kindness with insults that I shall take to the grave,
except that is too dramatic –
I shall remember them but one day all things will be lost to me.
I try to write secretly in the dark
but my mind is racing faster
than my hands possibly can, and as
my fingers grow tired
I try to let sleep consume me.
Yet instead of sleep
I am consumed by
half formed thoughts and almost-ideas,
on the tip of my mind’s tongue is
the poem that I have always dreamed of writing,
if only I could grasp it! All I can manage
is disjointed lines with no symmetry –
it’s barely even poetry any more, just dazed ramblings.
My blood is burning ink within my gushing veins.
Words are my every movement
And I am poetry in my lack of motion.