Poetry – or why it is we write
Why do we write? You ask, The simple answer is, We have too much blood Intoxicated and inebriated By the melancholy of Brooding everydays We are then destined to bleed, The only way to Let go of the accumulated suffocation Is to slit the veins And watch the corpuscles Ooze, drop by drop Into a thick, messy mass That blood-letting So important Is the true essence of writing – Too much toska Needs to be distributed Back to the sunshine of the world From where the shadows came So, we write Letting go of emptiness, Recovering, bit by bit Only to bleed again – to let go Of whatever we never were To breathe, and turn To whatever we never will be…. 25 th Nov, 2025
