• mirror 111w


    i write.
    endlessly, incessantly.
    i write the most baseless of phrases
    and the most pointless of thoughts
    as i feel something
    entirely different churning inside me.
    i write emotions
    that are dead to me
    in stories
    that my grandmother spun
    out of sundry yarns.
    i like my art raw, wet and fragnant.
    i love how every word
    sometimes means nothing
    yet people translate it
    into something
    that extends beyond the four corners
    of my bedroom.
    i create, not fully.
    i throw away ink on paper
    like shells scattered in sand
    and my drafts make up
    a meaningless myriad
    of senses, that you wish, made sense.

    on days when i do not write
    i water my dead garden of a mind
    and sit in a field of humus
    as i weave
    pages of nihilty
    into a poem of feelings
    that now seems to make sense
    to a world
    that does not know
    that feeling nothing at all
    is a one way road.

    so on days when i do not write
    i spiral down every road
    of a traumatic non-existence
    and mother a poem.


    @writersnetwork @mirakee

    picture credits - pinterest

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