Well, this has been quite the 30 days, to say the very least.
I feel as if every last metaphor has been sucked from my fingertips, every alliteration pounded from my skull, every monotonous rhyme spilled from my lips.
And somehow, I still want to write more.
I’d forgotten what poetry really can do, what a powerful medium it can become when it’s no longer about anything but what’s deepest and closest to you. I’d forgotten what it feels like to have the words rush out of your mind as your fingers struggle to keep up and the keyboard pounds madly. I’d forgotten what “inspiration” really is, and even though I still can’t define it, I know I’ve touched it by forcing myself forward into the poetry that is this life with pen and paper in hand, ready for the moment the first glimmer of an idea strikes.
It’s been an awesome, exhausting process.
Now excuse me while I see if I can mop up the remains of my melted brains.