I like poetry, I haven't written much of it in years.
I once lived in and for poetry, literature and all the magical and delicious worlds that words create.Â
I find that the thing about poetry, though, is it always made me thirsty for answers.Â
What does it's penner look like; are they a dreamer like me, is their heart broken or wild, do they like poetry too but find it difficult to write until they feel the world is sat right? Like I do?
I liked this girl. I haven't spoken about her in years,
She was I and I was equal parts in awe and deeply resentful of her. Her mind would spin these lovely little magical and delicious worlds.
I grew to understand that the thing about her, though, is that she had an ever expanding appetite for stories.
She was brown and broken, she was a dreamer like me, she was naiive and wild. She liked poetry and found it difficult to write until she felt the world was stood right. I did.
I thought I had left her at nineteen when I lay down my expectations of life, love and myself. I threw out the memories of the poetry and literature: the worlds I loved to lie in and create. I silenced my thirst for answers by believing they only birthed more questions. I stopped dreaming, took time to heal and taught myself to sit- to be- still. I put down my pen and slanted the way I felt the world did.Â
For years, I laughed the same way and woke and slept with an emptiness in my chest. I wondered if this was what it felt to be whole, grown, calm. But my heart and hands began to ache. I tried running, singing and studying: I felt emptier the harder I worked to be whole. So I sat and wrote. Everything between prayers and fears, songs and bitter cries poured out. And from within my heart I heard, over and over, "my words make the world right; my words will make the world right".
