I have stories inside of me
words floating in my blood
letters tucked between my joints.
I can feel iambic pentameter pulsing in my ears
sentences twisting their way around my ribs
crushing my chest until I set them free on the page.
When the weather turns cold
those letters go stiff in my knees
until I can hardly walk.
Meter and rhyme beat with my heart
and quicken with every breath.
When I finally sit down
and rid myself of these stories
and these people,
it is then that I know what it is
to be a writer.
words floating in my blood
letters tucked between my joints.
I can feel iambic pentameter pulsing in my ears
sentences twisting their way around my ribs
crushing my chest until I set them free on the page.
When the weather turns cold
those letters go stiff in my knees
until I can hardly walk.
Meter and rhyme beat with my heart
and quicken with every breath.
When I finally sit down
and rid myself of these stories
and these people,
it is then that I know what it is
to be a writer.
-R.E Savini
All of my poetry is honestly trash but I always feel the need to post it whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
ReplyDeleteBecause deep down in your subconscious, you know it isn't trash. Because it isn't. (And I'm terrible at encouragement, but that's what I'm trying to do if that wasn't apparent.)
Delete