So Put on Your Best, Boys, and I'll Wear my Pearls.

"Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere."

I miss the days when poetry leaped out of my soul on an almost daily basis.

Poetry, a wise woman once told me, is the art of perfect language. Not one letter where it's not needed; not one punctuation mark thoughtlessly placed. Every part of poetry has a purpose, and every part has a meaning. That's what I love about it.

It's hard to think sometimes. When I can't think, I usually turn to poetry. I read it; I write it. It just blooms out of me. Nowadays, however, my soul isn't just throwing words out at the speed of light. I don't like it. I miss my word overflow. It used to be like my soul felt so many things, it had so many words, that I just couldn't contain them all. Now... I don't know what to say.

Melting words and
runny sunbeams
slip into my soul.
Giving out and
giving in.
Sweet weariness
loves
my eyes.
Sweet weariness
loves
my hands.

It feels like the words are stones in my mouth sometimes these days. They're so heavy that I can only get one out at a time. Words used to be water in my mouth, flowing. Now they're just stones...

Is it bad? I don't know... We'll just see, I guess.

Vanessa. ((