I didn't think anyone else was like this. My friends would write poems about themselves. They still do. I would think something was wrong with me because I never wrote about me. I'd write a million things that would be just as powerful but not something I felt or had experienced.
But sometimes, I go back and find pieces of myself scattered in my poem like ashes from a fire.
Most recently was some nonsense I was scribbling. In the middle, I found something that just fits where my mind is right now, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.
This was the bit:
the spindled hands of trees gnarled and bare clutching at white spells unbalanced even odd and ends
I'm not even sure if I know what it means but it just feels like a piece of me that fell out into the words I was writing.
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Date: 2007-03-13 06:45 am (UTC)But sometimes, I go back and find pieces of myself scattered in my poem like ashes from a fire.
Most recently was some nonsense I was scribbling. In the middle, I found something that just fits where my mind is right now, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.
This was the bit:
the spindled hands of trees
gnarled and bare
clutching at white spells
unbalanced even odd and ends
I'm not even sure if I know what it means but it just feels like a piece of me that fell out into the words I was writing.