If you cannot write, read.


I find a void in my life has been filled with poetry. Words I write, and words that are written for me. Expressions of love, of connections, of experiences and conversations that are difficult to convey in speech take shape, rhythm and rhyme in stanzas…. satisfying like ice on parched lips.

So many things I want to say, that I want to get out of my head that push only to be met with the flexible walls of a balloon, still so contained. For a while, inspiration was everywhere. In a cup of tea, on top of a tower, in the breeze, in the graze of hands and talk of feet but now I find my words are brittle, they fall apart and are always on the verge of cracking.

My well is drying and more than that, the cement between the bricks are crumbling and slowly, the structure is eroding.

But it’s okay. Really, everything is okay.

While I experience a sprout of arid dry heat where words should be, the muse of writing is busy pouring vowels and consonants into the inkwells of other people, and I am happy just to read.

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