desolate

I called her liver a “battle scarred warrior” as she reached for a third drink

and thought idly to myself “so is my heart; so is my soul.”

My body is weary and worn beyond it’s years,

filled with creaks and groans and heavy sighs

every time I close my eyes.

*** and THEN WHAT??? ***

— accurate example of at least 72% of my journal pages for the past year


I haven’t written poetry in what feels like eons. I’ve been living in a desolate wasteland of practicality and efficiency, of numbers and definitions and cold, hard facts that don’t budge when you place your palm against their smooth surface, that don’t breathe and move and provoke feelings, emotions, the same way words do.

But a few weeks ago, some time in the last couple of months, I sat at a bar with one of my grown-lady friends, drinking a Hemingway purely for the satisfaction of his name rolling off my tongue, and I felt it — that spark, the movement of a tiny bird caught in my soul, and I caught it before it managed to flap away from my grasp.

I think it takes time to bring it back, to cultivate once again the reckless action of flinging black ink fragments of one’s soul onto white pages, the open-eyed dreaming of finding shapes within the clouds, to turn the most mundane objects and activities into riveting tales of bravery and heroism.

And it takes effort. It takes avid reading and spontaneous adventures and mug after mug of hot tea. Mostly I think, though, it takes patience, because I feel the start of it, nagging at the back of my mind, crouching in the curve of my fingers, dancing at the tip of my tongue — it’s almost ready,

but not quite yet.

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