How do you navigate through all that lurks,
except by admitting all you don’t know.
How do you uncover the truth that works,
if you’re not willing to read and grow.
A page, a line, a word at the very least,
then all that remains is patience and foresight,
watch your spirit rise like yeast.
Iqra – To read or recite.
‘it was caffeine she was after, not her fate’ – Elif Shafak, The bastard of Istanbul.
Is it my fate I’m chasing,
in all these copious amounts,
of coffee drinking.
Is it an answer from the unknown,
I’m waiting to be shown,
holding to account,
a coffee bean,
a baristas hand,
to black and gold elixir sinking.
I need an inkling,
to steer me,
and enhance my thinking.
Elif is the #muse of the day.
a writer is a vicious tyrant
narcissist stuck in his repetition
cutting down trees to pen his heart
assuming his heart is more noble than the tree
nay, the poetry is not in his page dents
it’s in the tree’s offering
I’m trying to sleep.
Now FUCK OFF
and leave me alone!
Wait, wait please come back.
That’s my hourly conversation with words or something along those lines.
I have a seriously dysfunctional relationship with words. A love hate relationship.
Picture War of the Roses. That’s me and words.
One minute I’d be pandering to them, begging and pleading for some light and the next I just want them to go away. The influx is too much.
Notebooks of all sizes. One that even slips unassumingly into my back pocket like a mini gun a woman slips into her garter.
Large ones as big as my appetite for words.
Medium ones, just enough to show people I am writing something but small enough to look like a work diary.
On the phone jotter app
On the phone notepad app
The PC that is always on.
Calligraphy pens and paper/books.
Only thing I am missing is a typewriter. Gotsta get me a typey
Are you as addicted as I am?
Sometimes the cacophony of audible and visual abuse is so much to bear that it’s easier to restore your faith in humanity by reclusing to a book.