There’s a peace in poetry that only you can describe. An explanation of thought that until it’s written is a complete secret. Your visions, a word diagram of how life and people make you feel. Everything I write stems from a feeling. Today feels like one of those days where I could write continuously. Special days. Where people can unwittingly inspire words that would otherwise never come to light. I don’t consider this a talent or a gift. Everyone can express pain and passion and love and hate. We just do it differently. Some of us keep secrets locked away, but I’m rubbish at that. They weigh heavily on my heart. Things fester sometimes and I need this outlet. Beauty is another reason I write. In this world of fake niceties and false meaning this is a truly honest depiction of what I see and feel. No holds barred. If I see ugly I write it even if it’s not as pleasant as the beautiful it has its place amongst it. Mood is everything for me. I can’t just write. “The cat sat on the mat” would only leave me wanting another cat…or mat. Only in losing can we truly feel loss. Storytellers can write chapters on it but unless they’ve felt it, it remains just a story, but for the reader it’s something different. It’s experiences had. It’s a connection to what’s unfolding before them. It’s the pictures they create from the words. It’s definitely why I connect with books more than films. I get to pick who becomes the hero or heroine, the villain or the beast. That any actor is capable of making us believe a portrayal is questionable to me, it’s the story that allows it. I’d definitely rather stand on a field I’ve thought up, than make sense of one being shown to me.
I guess that explains why I write and why I sometimes never finish what I’m saying. It doesn’t stop because punctuation demands it. A poem is open ended however you read it, the writer always has control of that. Everyone I meet plays their part be it briefly or intimately . As do those I’ve yet to meet. You are all my source.