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.
however, 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.