Eye Rɛin Vərsəz

When you're happy to hear them say 'you make me so angry' and they're happy to say 'it is fine, you can get mad at me any time'.

Silk kimono over lace negligé, ripped jeans and jungle red nails, out of bed bun and bare feet, ankle bracelet hanging on the right side, hot ginger water placed on a high stool right before me and just me howling my soul into that open mic.

I don’t want to teach myself to not need you, but you're leaving me no choice.

I feel longing on your skin.

I want to hold you. Tightly, almost as if pressing my body into yours.

You spend time and energy trying to find people or things to make you happy. But are you happy with you? Are you making you happy?

Even when we are away, poetry keeps on happening; it always does, and it never stops. In the drafts, in the memos.

If you need mind altering substances to access your art, it is not art.

Words form in my head, they tickle my tongue and tease my fingertips, begging me to set them free. A story offers itself to me, it unfolds in my mind and I simply cannot untell it. Writing then becomes a responsibility, an indispensable and irrefutable choice.

What you see in black on white background, that is editing, never writing. By the time words touch that paper, by the time they enter that screen, poetry has already happened. In the heart, in the mind.