A WRITER’s MIND
"How do you write?"
"How do you think of all these things?"
A question I’ve heard more times than I can count,
as if there is a formula,
as if I can explain something
that even I don’t fully understand.
Little do they know,
I don’t try too hard
the words find me.
I write what I see,what I feel, what I know.
And my thoughts?
They are like poetry,
appearing suddenly,
as if by magic,
just like a grandmother knitting a sweater
for her newborn grandchild.
I write because I have to.
Because my mind is never silent.
Because every moment feels like a story
waiting to be told.
I don’t decide to turn something into poetry
it happens on its own.
A single sound, a half remembered dream,
a conversation overheard in passing
before I even realize it,
the words are forming,
taking shape,
asking to be written.
A writer does not always understand
where the words come from.
They arrive on their own,
like autumn leaves finding their place on the ground,
like a river carving its path through stone,
like ink flowing onto a page
before I even know what I want to say.
I don’t force the poem to exist.
It has always been there,
waiting for me to see it.
©umclite
U