Aug 2016
I think that I am possessed
I scroll into the past, and
I see the words that pour from my heart
The's are mine? No, they cannot be mine;
I don't even remember writing that line
I think I am possessed by a poetic spirit
Who yanks strange words from my bones
Because how could it be that I,
So simple, so fragile, so weak and slow,
Can create these literary masterpieces
That I see as I scroll
Nay, they cannot be mine
I am surely possessed by poetry.
I scroll into the past, and
I see the words that pour from my heart
The's are mine? No, they cannot be mine;
I don't even remember writing that line
I think I am possessed by a poetic spirit
Who yanks strange words from my bones
Because how could it be that I,
So simple, so fragile, so weak and slow,
Can create these literary masterpieces
That I see as I scroll
Nay, they cannot be mine
I am surely possessed by poetry.
Looking back at some of my poems from the last few months, I'm amazed by what I'm reading. When I write, it's like I'm not even human anymore, I'm just a waterfall of words and emotions, and somehow everything manages to come together prettily at the bottom.
(26/Non-binary/that mystical place...)
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