the staring

of the blank page,

the page which has been blank maybe a year now,

as bare as the winter trees

dead and deader

as the days go by.

if I can only write

once I read,

Poetry Magazine in hand,

does that make me a writer?

or does that make me a fraud?

copying structure

(which is to say, no structure at all)

and punctuation

(hardly)

and grammar rules

(nonexistent, but that’s why I love it),

inventing new versions of old stories,

Persephone and Icarus alone

does anyone else feel

hollow?

are the words there for you

but stubborn, and only if prompted?

or am I empty? (woe is me / void of any poetry)

cursed? (or devoid of it, perhaps, and the misery that is neverending narrative)

ive forgotten how to express myself

words no long er leek (?) from me

im afrade that sooon

thay wil be g ggone four--

fore--

*error: not found*

4eva

i (ma e) ne var [ rite ] again

Yes, it’s hard to reach. For some, nearly impossible. But have you ever splayed yourself out beneath a window pouring sunlight? Have you ever had a dog come to you in a room full of people? Have you ever found the perfect word, the perfect song or story or image, to articulate completely what you’re feeling? Has anyone ever gifted you with their touch, maybe a smiling child or shy date, leaving a gentle buzz where they did? Have you ever smelled the scent of flowers? Ever tasted other cultures from a food cart? Ever been told you are loved, seen, appreciated, accepted? If yes, congratulations—you’ve known happiness. If not—set your phone down, sit up straight, and think. Sometimes memories can be covered in dust or stacked forgotten in boxes, but given only a minute, your heart and mind will recover them. And in the meantime, understand that happiness isn’t the End Goal: it’s that temporary flicker, that fleeting feeling we’re all blessed with from time to time, and it occurs in the small moments, the kind gestures, the sweet words falling from the mouths of others. Whoever turned happiness into something that must be scratched off a to-do list? I don’t know, but I do know this: it’s never too late to reclaim it. So tell me; what is happiness to you?

Being a good writer doesn’t mean having perfect grammar (or any at all, really, if you’re e.e. cummings)—it doesn’t mean being published, being recognized, being trained, being liked (because Lord knows we all lost trust in Ray Bradbury after “Fahrenheit 451” showed us our true nature); being a good writer simply means getting what’s inside of you, out. Because that is the hardest, but also the bravest, thing any person can do.

Screams I recognized as harrowed pleas were little more than inconveniences to the outside world

Which slept on in steady stupor, chests rising and falling still, amidst our chaos

The chaos of heat and light; the chaos of the chance of death

Because while you were sleeping soundly, we were dying, trapped, acutely unaware

Of the single marble slate tipped over, the domino that was

A tiny blue flame, come solely to tear us apart;

And it did, as sniffles became screams, but never

Did those screams morph into sirens or safety—

The comforting stream of a water hose—

Because you, with Not My Mother

You were shouting, but differently

Both of us on

Fire, but only

Your flames

Killed.