I write because the very essence of my soul demands it.
Hearts are weak, soft, and are hurt easy,
They bleed, and then cease to exist.
The soul is liquid forever
Moving at its own pace through existence
Mingling with others, and then splitting apart
Tirelessly spilling into new territory
Fearlessly cutting the terrain beneath it into cracks,
And yes, even canyons.
The fluidity of it is perfection.
And there’s no need to lead the way, it knows.
So denying it what it demands is folly.
My heart feels and seeks after inspiration.
But words are the implements of my souls grand design…
For Ghosts and Onionskins…
I’m a tumblr, but I don’t follow anyone. It’s not really what I am here for. I do, however subscribe to a few rss feeds, of which yours is one. And quite frankly the only one I frequent that belongs to someone I don’t know.
But then I ask myself, don’t I? Don’t I know you, the one whose words always speak to me like a secret whispered between childhood friends? Even though I am well aware that I will never know the full, unabridged meaning of your words, I feel we are connected. Your poetry is a gift and somehow reading your words makes the fear I have of sharing my own melt away.
So I want to thank you for writing. From one moment to the next, from one poet to the next. Thank you.