writing / writers


Time has passed since I wrote this piece.

I don’t usually write poetry, and when I do, it’s  often not to play with words and language like the best poets do. I suppose they are cathartic pieces, a way of untwisting convoluted emotions at play. I’ve always been annoyed at how literal and emotionally driven my poems usually turn out. So much so that I don’t dare to show them to anyone. It’s the one hurdle I have yet to cross in my writing – I hate showing myself in my words, but when I try to limit that, much of what comes out seems bland and formulaic.

I don’t think you can be a good writer if you suppress your personality, shaped by your past, in your words. So the next best thing to do is to embrace it, and have it fuel whatever words that come out of you. I’m still learning to do that without my inner censor blinking red.


This cocoon of heartache
protects and distances.
I view the world from
without, a stranger
in my own life.
Compartmentalization is key.

People sometimes say things and I nod,
smile, and mutter the words they seek.
I am paying attention to life itself.
The smallest details
occupy and bore me

The cracks can be plastered over.
The semblance of routine is a
comforting distraction.
Yet sometimes, the queasiness of heartache overflows
like heartburn.
Throbbing incessantly, even as life goes ruthlessly on,
and the world turns as it has always done.
Stopping for no one.

I move on too,
as I know I must. But all the while thinking about
this knot of grief in my gut
that needs unravelling.


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