i’ll let one of my secrets out: even if i love writing poetry to the essence of the marrow of my bones, i am actually afraid of it. because i feel, due to coincidences, that some of what i write about come true. i don’t want to support this point, because it would reveal so much about myself. note that when i write, i based it on vicarious experiences. suffice it to say that i feel like a wounded kid afraid to play in the fields, but who so love the grass and the plants and lilting butterflies. when i feel the urge to write, i hold back, and the geyser of words become cold. they leave wisps of smoke about me. i remember someone who loves bubbles so much he actually bought a set and blew bubbles at me. it was his version of one of gabriel garcia marquez’s strongest characters, a woman who was followed by butterflies all the time. i feel a lot of words have been held back, and i feel their weight inside and outside of myself. it’s hard to forgive myself, loving writing and yet holding back a lot . i guess it’s one of the greatest ironies in my life.
one time i got so pissed by this irony i wrote a poem about my writing paranoia. here is an excerpt:
She throws her pens in the attic,
tears pages from her journals,
and sings with the birds.
Sad tunes, they’re carried straight
through me, singed blades
cutting through my sleep.
“I wonder why you’ve stopped,”
I ask her.
Over cookies, she says that all
her writings come true….
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