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