Writing isn’t what is inside the envelope that a mail carrier holds

it starts in the very soil where the subject stands; way back

when the earth nourished the plants that fed our ancestors

                                                                            a seedling, 










Used to think of writing as a gift, carefully thought intentions,

Turns out to be a stir, 

       inside out,                                                     outside in.

A ritual with the constraints that we name.

Never studied anatomy

but I do know, I do feel like pouring my blood out.

From my veins, through my body, upon the page.



Entradas populares

My therapist wants to know about my relationship with my country

People I hardly knew but still think about

Ojos de ópalo, corazón de ónix

Mirror of introspection