Anticipations Heavy
On the strange thing that happens to writers when they're at peace — and the loss of control that comes when the words finally arrive.
A handwritten one, scribbled in a notebook on a deck overlooking palm trees. The honest meta-poem about why the rest of the poems happen at all.
I can’t write unless I’m sad
I’m glad, I’m not just glad
I have nothing to say
I’m content, it’s why I’m at peace
It seems I can’t conjure anything
Unless something’s wrong
How can that be right?
Words is the way to express me
Fueled with relationship
As if my muffles to express
Can only be withdrawn out as stress
I digress — I quit control it
I simply cannot
And when it does, I try to be ready
Anticipations heavy
The contented version of you doesn’t write much. The sad version is the one with the pen. I quit control it — once you stop trying to hold the thing in, the thing comes out. Anticipations heavy — and you learn to keep the notebook close.
— JTC