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Poetry: i do not know how to write anymore



i do not know how to write anymore | Oble Square by TINTA

Not even able to think of a word to jot.

And that is how I always come at a dead end

I do not know how to write anymore.
I cannot write without worrying
If my words are too simple
Or byzantine.

I cannot write without the anxiety
Of writing something people already read
I don’t want to be a replica
A photocopy
A duplicate
A synonym for other works.
But then again if I write something novel
Something solely fresh and distinctive
I would believe that people would never notice its uniqueness
And instead see it as unintelligible and meaningless
As if I am the only one able to cognize
My own garbled words
Like an archaic language
Au fait s’io docresse fulio
I’m the solitary speaker.

I’m afraid of writing too much fiction
The unrealism of my metaphors
Like weaving rainbows and lacing them
As harnesses of unicorns
Who gave a blowjob to the side of the crescent moon’s smile
And got impregnated, giving birth to the constellations
In which I plucked the stars to make
Strings of diamonds I decorate in your hair as a crown
Cause you are my King who beheaded every maiden in the planet
Except for me because you liked kissing my neck.

But I also do not want to be too monotonous
By writing reality as it is
Like black and white
We live then we die.
Nothing noteworthy with that.

I also don’t know the left words to say.

And sometimes my mind shifts from thought to thought
I want to write a thesaurus on the synonyms of love
There’s passion, ardour, zeal, Denver
Fuck this, I’m going to scrawl the
Ten reasons why I hate long distance relationships
Now I have this reflection of the still ocean
Well, how about I pen a novel
On the catastrophic history of us.

I do not know how to write anymore.
At times I feel everything!
Too many thoughts, wisdom, ideas
Inspiration, concepts, designs
All at once I feel every emotion in the world
And it all becomes a vomit of sensation
Resulting from excitement.

But my frequent problem would be
Always having ink in the pen my fingers are embracing
But the inability for the pen to move across the paper
And write a word
Not even able to think of a word to jot.
And that is how I always come at a dead end
That I could write so breathlessly at the first stanza
But become impotent of finishing what 


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This entry for Poetry is written by Zsatherlie Imasa.

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