Things

I write enraged. My hope and anger are all I have to fight with. The wild-fire inside me eats away at my pen. My ire is red with envy and a desire for change. I am not a poet. My polemics are twisted to fit inside sentences, so tight I could burst. I am hopeful, but I’m not optimistic that change can happen soon. We are being spun too fast to stop and consider the past. The past is so difficult for me to remember. I am demented from the constant demands to keep up. It’s hard for me to find the truth. So I write to remember what I can.

I write to hold on to what I know to be real. To cut through all the lies. I write all the time. Sometimes in scribbles.  Ranting, not rhyming. I want to make poem shapes, to wrangle and manoeuvre those pesky words around. These polemics have cutting words to tame. And I don’t want to smooth these edges. I want to train my polemics into shape. To be shaped like a poem. I want to write beyond the rhymes, and the decorative detail. I want to tell stories. To make fictions of lives untellable.