Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Poetry

The words pour out of the pen and onto the paper almost effortlessly. It's like they had been waiting to be written. And the poem is half finished before the author fully realized why they were writing it.

Later, when the words couldn't be forced out, the author wondered why it had been so easy earlier. Was it the circumstances? Was it boredom? Was it random inspiration? Why had those words been so clear then and now they hid away? And the most important question of all: would it happen again?

Of course, it happened again. With the same questions popping up afterwards. And again. And again. With no fully discernible pattern. But that didn't stop the author from loving the times the words came and the emptying of feelings being poured out with the words. It was healing.

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I am not a huge fan of poetry in general (somehow, it's just not my favorite thing to read), but sometimes I seem to have some poem that flows out of me. And each line comes right after the last, with only a minor effort occasionally to fix something that doesn't seem to be working. And when I finish writing it, I feel better.

I guess most of my writing is somewhat cathartic. At least the writing that seems to flow the easiest. And that's probably the best thing for me.
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