writing about writing
written for day 2 of the poetry tag.
some days you are a romance writer,
writing about love as if you are
well-versed in the realm of heartache:
five ways to fall in love
with love
on love
over love
out of love
five rules to follow when you date a boy
who looks at you like you painted
the sky in all its brilliant shades of blue
five paths to take so you don't
step on the shards during the
aftermath of a break
up
(and a thousand more to take so you do.)
some days you write books for adults
who want to be children: you tell
of the feeling of chasing the wind
in a brick-red courtyard,
the taste of dreams both near and far
(astronaut journalist roadsweeper beggar)
the smell of your parents' clothes,
a dizzying sweet scent of comfort and home.
but most days you don't write.
instead you think about writing, about
how you aren't so much reader or
writer but a reservoir of thirst that
cannot be quenched by merely
delving into a book; how
the longing to write is ever-present
in the blood in your veins,
the crook of your fingers,
the skin of your palm.
most days, you write about writing.
-
i wrote this instead of doing my homework on a sunday night at 10 pm, go me
also just saying but these are late posts lmao i can't power through two poems in one day, i am a weak punk?? three more days to go and they're not even going to be consecutive smh evaleen
some days you are a romance writer,
writing about love as if you are
well-versed in the realm of heartache:
five ways to fall in love
with love
on love
over love
out of love
five rules to follow when you date a boy
who looks at you like you painted
the sky in all its brilliant shades of blue
five paths to take so you don't
step on the shards during the
aftermath of a break
up
(and a thousand more to take so you do.)
some days you write books for adults
who want to be children: you tell
of the feeling of chasing the wind
in a brick-red courtyard,
the taste of dreams both near and far
(astronaut journalist roadsweeper beggar)
the smell of your parents' clothes,
a dizzying sweet scent of comfort and home.
but most days you don't write.
instead you think about writing, about
how you aren't so much reader or
writer but a reservoir of thirst that
cannot be quenched by merely
delving into a book; how
the longing to write is ever-present
in the blood in your veins,
the crook of your fingers,
the skin of your palm.
most days, you write about writing.
-
i wrote this instead of doing my homework on a sunday night at 10 pm, go me
also just saying but these are late posts lmao i can't power through two poems in one day, i am a weak punk?? three more days to go and they're not even going to be consecutive smh evaleen