I have a confession to make, but before I make it, I want you to get into the right state of mind. sit down. breathe. take in the world around you.
Ready? Okay, here goes.
I am not a writer.
No; writing is not something I merely do. It’s something that envelops me, becomes me.
I write in fits and bursts. That is, the words erupt from within me. The creation is inherent, delicious and tormenting.
I do not write every day. I write when I must, but not when I’m told. I write when the words visit me like an old friend, sitting softly by my side. When they barge in, breaking down the door, demanding to be heard.
My poetry is often about poetry – how it feels when I can’t get it out, how it feels when I can’t find a stopper.
poem one hundred and thirty two.
do you ever just
reach into your ribs
pull out your heart
gripping every last
coagulated thought
thrust it forth
into the world
so they might finally
understand
Words are art. The way they writhe and dance with one another on the page or in conversation. The way they leave a tinge on your tongue, a rouge on your cheeks. The meaning of the words carry as much weight as the words themselves: just look at them!
This is a love letter to language. To words and sentences and syntax. To writing, reading, and everything in between.