Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 329

It’s late and my body’s tired but my heart, it knows not itself till I have written. Sometimes it’s like that. It’s like writing allows me to interrogate it. You’ll know what I mean if you’re a writer. And a writer is a thinker, is she not? So if one does not write, one cannot really know what one thinks. And if one thinks, one must write. Of course there’re people who give zero fucks about poetry. They’re a specimen too. They’re meant to be something else probably. So do what is natural and necessary for yourself. Know thyself–that’s a quest. That’s your prompt, about knowing yourself, in your bones kind of way. What you’re a specimen of.

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3 thoughts on “Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 329

  1. Motivation

    I’m certainly not
    one who gives two fucks about
    who likes poetry
    and who doesn’t or
    even care much who might read
    some scrawl of my heart.
    Very few acknowledge
    passing through my collections
    and that’s fine with me.

    I write because there’s
    no freaking choice. My heart aches
    if I don’t write some
    most days and my brain
    starts spilling out my damn ears,
    staining my tee shirts
    on my left shoulder
    above the hole where my heart
    used to lurk before.

    ‎September ‎15, ‎2017 2:36 PM

  2. Pingback: Motivation, by Christopher Hileman | Red Wolf Journal

  3. I Just Know I Need to Write

    Do you know what joy it is
    to read a phrase that is golden,
    a description that makes you
    stop reading just to admire
    its power and beauty?

    Those moments are magic
    and yet you know they are
    works of art, hard labor,
    odes, words carefully
    chosen, tasted, swallowed.

    That’s what I want when
    I write. To make someone
    somewhere stop a moment
    and admire a thought, fall
    in love with a pattern, color,

    texture, whiff of newness
    that takes you to a place
    you’ve never been before.
    Like Neruda did, like Heaney,
    like Oliver and Szymborska.

    Bits of themselves, tragic,
    loving, hopeful, despairing
    that makes me want to write
    and at the same time taunts
    ‘Don’t even try. What more,

    What better way? What makes
    you think you even can? And,
    I say, there is a need. I don’t
    control it. It controls me. And
    so I write and hope and despair.

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