Day 8 … One on One With Poetry

Love: Writing Poetry feels like a chore. There’s days where I stare at my pad like a child glaring at their homework with resentment. But there’s moments where the words fill me like a tidal wave. When I am already drowning in the tank of life. Trying to perform magic tricks of daily tasks of motherhood and being a poet. And you can guess which one wins. Motherhood. The times when….

Poetry: Wait wait wait just wait. That’s what you want to talk about? How its chore to write for me? About me?

Love: I didn't say that, don’t put words in my mouth!

Poetry: How could I? Even when I tried you wouldn’t write the words I’d want you to. You can’t find the emotions that I encapsulated into words for you. You can’t find the meaning in anything I say to you. I gave you my words my feelings. My emotions- Me!

Love: Why are you so angry? Because the love that had my life transfixed on poetry has gone astray. That filled my life with permanent ink stains on my hands and fingertips. Constantly carrying a book incase a moment inspired me, constantly isolating myself. Even in a group because the need for you to be present took a hold of me. Like a personality that comes forth and takes control like Bruce Banner and The Hulk.

Poetry: You never objected. Never once hit pause from those hypnotising sessions where we could write 3 or 4 pieces. You didn’t mind writing my every pain or sorrow. The things that hurt the most that I shouldn’t have shared. That I would have to relive again and again. Reciting them back to me, never once said this is too much. When you were setting the table with my misfortunes to calculate the amount of feedback or clout you were trying to conjure.

Love: You are hurt but ….

Poetry: Hurt? No, I am wounded. Like a defenceless creature slaughtered and hung on display as another trophy. A mythical being lost in the pages of time that no one will believe in. A fairy tale told to sleepy innocent hearts that are just stories with no meaning. That is what I am to you. Scribbles on a piece of paper that will be thrown away. Fighting against time to be remembered. And eventually I’ll be a relic. A piece of forgotten in history. The mystery of what art sounds like. Even with all the pain and suffering. Through the years of upset and disorder. There was always you. Love.

Sincerely Yours.

Isha A Poet xx