For those mornings when I am anticipating my return home before I’ve stepped out the door:
One of the most sublime gifts in life is knowing that, at the end of the day, there will be a small, furry face watching for me, an excellent selection of pens, pencils, and notebooks. books, both read and unread, and wine chilling alongside a little something to nibble in the fridge.
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Poetry stretches the meaning of my words, giving them new shapes and angles. It expands the basic art of conversation, allowing the speaker to present themselves in a multitude of ways. It makes no demands, allowing me to curl my thoughts around corners and bends, placing my truths anywhere on the page that I please. Poetry puts on disguises, playing hide-and-seek, all the while dancing to a tune that only some are able to hear. Why poetry, he asks me. To heal and move on, my friend.
It starts with a smear of ink,
blotted and swimming
Taking breaths without contemplation. Finding roads and exploring. Sometimes unexpected. sometimes familiar. This is a place to learn to breathe, explore our wild side, magic, and starting over, as many times as it takes.
I’m a writer, creator, hippie/nerd/artist, looking for do-overs, fresh chances, a style I can call my own. Writing is an uncharted mystery and poetry is medicine.