Friday, November 7


So, you know how this blog is like a chore? I mean, a chore in the sense that it is a writing exercise that I give myself to see if I will ever have the stamina to be a professional writer because they write and write for hours on end. I try to write everyday. Obviously, I'm not very successful. And the chore of writing is making my mind lash out at myself, I suppose.

I've started writing poetry again.

I know poetry is not everyone's cup of tea. Often, it isn't even what I serve at my tea parties, but sometimes one wants the lyrical magic of stanzas, alliteration, rhyme, rhythm, and so on. Perhaps it is because as a child I wrote pages of poems - silly rhymes and nonsense streams of words with similar sounds, gifts given to family members were poems about their name or their traits - but it pleases me to write outside of the proverbial prose box. I like to wrap my mind up in the sound of words. I like to read poetry and analyze how the words work together, and I also like to simply listen to the way they sound - leaving behind all my poetic theory.

To turn the language into something more than words is a best loved hobby. To take life and express it in a beautiful mystical way is why the world loves language. And why we keep writing. To find the perfect words in the perfect order.

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