What I think about when I think about writing
Is a minuscule bit of chaos
Of predictions and assumptions
Entwining in bursts of emotion.
Writing a poem feels like possession
As if the words that come off the roll of my tongue
Belong to me, and are in my control
For that split-second, until someone else uses them
To create symbols out of the mere act of existing.
Words come to me like the water hits the rocks
(Occasionally in swift fervour)
Slowly, but steadily, rounding them
And moulding them to change them just enough
So that the ebbing tide doesn’t damage them in anguish.
Rereading a poem feels like home
As if the words escape paper and draw feelings in my mind
And knowing the endings gives me the comfort
That prophecies aren’t always all that mystic.