Process of Poetry

I

Inspiration in unplanned pages,
Empty oasis, serendipitous encounters,
Minute details of passerbys,
Opaque windows, drawing closed,
You open them with your ink.

Stones in the river, banners flying high,
Nature, city, crowds, but all you see
is poetry.

II

Nights are never long enough for the dark inside of you,
Waiting on the sidelines until only your lamplight lets you see–
You like to be blind to the world when you write.

Daytime is too bright, squinting in sunlight,
Your white pages, black ink too reflective in sun’s spotlight.
Your blackened, soot-filled heart
Makes too much of a conspicuous mess when spilled out here,
You must wait until sunset, your safety in dark nights.

When the contrast is more subtle,
You can pretend your truths are still hidden.

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