You know the easiest to overlook nook of all can be your own insides. In one ear, out the other, so said the grandmum. But I’ve in an ear, and buried; and that makes sedimentary sandstone of stories, daylight, faces and people, voices and accents, long roads, short, the scent of fresh onions, paint — until it’s not just pressed, it’s plaque, building up backwash-bacteria of the unexpressed.
Creativity is the same way. It languishes unused; it rots. Overlooked nook! It’s a buried one again, and that kind of sediment morphs into sickly, sticking, resentful sentiments all over the proverbial inner-carpet of the brain-pain.
I don’t like ignoring the nooks. Half my joy in being alive is THIS. All of this.
I don’t like sharing. Old block.
I do like sharing. Pop on down, join me and Rampant Curiosity. I make this 25 days of letters to Whomever It May Concern, and Poems. In all capitals, because that’s their proper place.
TODAY [ 2 March 2015 ]
You know, girl,
poetry can get you places a long-ways
It puts bones in your skin and
a fire to the blurt
fretting-flutter spurt behind your ribs
Put that match to your insides
you’re a moonshine still
Poetry can get you a long-ways.