Oh, how I envy those poets. Those men and women who can juggle a few words in their head and then put them onto the page (or screen) in an way that carries meaning.
How do they do that?
When my heart is breaking, or doing anything else out of the ordinary, besides beating, I write.
Even when I have nothing to say. When the words elude me. It’s healthier than drinking. It’s cheaper than therapy. Even emptiness can sometimes bear fruit.
I wish, with a passion, that I could write poetry, because I think it’s such a good pain vessel; almost specifically designed for the task.
But my poetry would turn out something like this:
And really what good is a one word poem?
How much of your heart finds its way onto the page?
Do your character express your emotional experiences? Do words help you make sense of life?
I’m sending love and gratitude to all the poets out there for expressing the inexpressible.