There is a big difference when I write a poem and a story. To write fiction I’ll go deep into my imagination as to invent a story; whereas for a poem, well… it’s more of an instantaneous thing, almost didactic; and it’s only when I re-read the poem I’ve written, that I notice some elements of my own experiences and personal thoughts that are embedded into the poem. To me, the poem I write is simply an unconscious cacophonous blend of personal experiences, thoughts, wants, and needs – a dissection of the intimacy of my mind.
Poetry is an intimacy,
From which I can’t quite ever recover,
All of these subliminal dissections
Of my mind that look so fancy,
Yet that portrays thoughts under cover.
You see the night and the bright;
The bride and its passionate mate
All of the happiness and all of the fright
Something dark, something like fate
All my rearing, all I am, all naked.
I dream of mares –
That wildly run into my nightmares
They are headless and poneylike,
They are all colours and rainbowlike
All living, in these poetries, dissected.
How would I describe all that flows?
They just flow, wildly, as I exorcise
Or perhaps its Mnemosyne, that sows,
Her seeds, which blooms, into nine muses —
Letting all the beauty of words rise.
If the poetry of me is a lie
From which I can’t quite ever recover
For through all of these dissections
Something truthful only to me comes
While all my thoughts, gently flow and fly.
