The Nature In Your Soul
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I wrote this book in the warm light of my cold bedroom, pondering, wondering, and feeling. Often this is how my poems spill out of my soul, by feeling all too much. So, I write them down, I analyze them, I interpret them. I look at them as if they were beautiful paintings hung on a museum wall, studying every minor brushstroke. Writing soothes my soul in the process of its creation. First, I feel. I feel everything that I have been holding in for months, or, at times, I have a single surge of emotion. This form of feeling guides the words from my soul to my mind, calming me, even if the feelin...
I wrote this book in the warm light of my cold bedroom, pondering, wondering, and feeling. Often this is how my poems spill out of my soul, by feeling all too much. So, I write them down, I analyze them, I interpret them. I look at them as if they were beautiful paintings hung on a museum wall, studying every minor brushstroke. Writing soothes my soul in the process of its creation. First, I feel. I feel everything that I have been holding in for months, or, at times, I have a single surge of emotion. This form of feeling guides the words from my soul to my mind, calming me, even if the feeling was brought from an origin of suffering. The words come together and mix in a beautiful, blissful, sweetness, like stirring a spoonful of honey into a cup of lemon tea. They dance together in the rain and bring a small smile skipping across my face. These are the words that comfort me on Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings, when the world is at peace, and reality feels altered. First, I feel. Carefully, I write. I write these dancing words and blissful drops of honey onto yellowed pages with my favourite pen - the kind of pen that lets the ink flow just right; it matches the fl ow of the river in my soul. I write in loops and tedious lines, trying so desperately to make these poems as beautiful on paper as they are in my mind. I write these with delicacy and care, and then I revisit. I do this and see their beauty again, I rearrange them, I add to them so I can hear my lover whispering the same words to me - those beautiful words. The brisk sound of every letter hits me and reminds me of every emotion buried behind the softness of each line. I pluck words like cherries from trees and I, in turn, plant them like seeds into the earthly soil. Carefully, I write. This brings my tethered soul peace.
