Writing is where I settle and ignite.
But when I get back home to Writing
The thoughts that mutate and strangle me
No longer seem so wild
They are captured, rationalised
I feel closer to earth
Yet Writing is also where I can dream
Bring distant ideas to the forefront
And let them live
In poems without rules
Caught between melancholy and expansion.
Caught between melancholy and expansion,
Yet caught nonetheless.
These words are an anchor,
The verse a gate holding back reality –
For good or for ill.
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