when i write
there is usually a keyboard
beneath my fingers
a pen
inking paper
or a smartphone typing
words
spill out from me
liquid and tangible
translucent and tangled
able to twist and turn
and mean many
different things
and yet this woman
struts about the room
as if she is the first to walk it
each heel, a command from her mouth.
i step. you listen. i speak.
you be quiet.
and talks about
poetry, saying it is
not about the world
in isolation
it lives
on thoughts and feelings
alone
and i think she must
not enjoy
her ideas or inquisitive eyes
aimed at the self, when her
descriptions are all
unkind, though adept.
when i write
i am as much a part of the world
as the world is a part of me
after all, even she
made it here
in these lines.
~
RNH
