How do I begin to write poetry, when I’m far from the brink of despair?
Do I string words like lights at Christmas time, wrapping them across my body and around my neck,
until I choke out some semblance of meaning?
or should I sit
pondering until genius finds me, then tears me apart
How hard should I try to pluck phrases from trees?
out of reach,
or only as far as one can imagine
I think I can.
tugging branches through thin air, until I’ve scattered enough letters
to articulate a coherent expression
I still don’t understand.
How high or drunk or crossed in mind must one be,
to form some-sound-thing from nothing?
I’d let every sad thought consume me and embrace the pain if I could.
But I can’t escape the torture,
craving release through words.
Originally featured in The Creative Cafe, a Medium publication