Although the actions are conclusive,
And the little words are yet elusive
There is no rush, there is no foul
When we are dealing with little doubt
While you say very little and say way too much,
While we’re hot and brittle by each other’s touch.
So dear sheep, dear warmth, dear nourishment to my heart,
Don’t be frightened, don’t be spooked,
Just play the same ol’ part.
Give me silence, like worthy books,
Give me breaths and pensive looks,
Give me soft and tender kiss,
Give me memories to miss
Give me gentle hands to hold,
Give me moments to be bold,
Give me all you have thus far,
I could, with this, be satisfied.
And if I bed and ask for more,
If I whine and bitch and moan,
If I say this is not enough,
Then promptly wave your hand,
And quietly say adieu,
Because then you’ll know, my darling,
That I’m not good enough for you!
To me, creative writing is living and feeling enough that a reservoir of thoughts and desire builds up to the bursting point. With every positive, negative and neutral emotion a drop of need falls into the pit, until you have so many thoughts and ideas and so very little room that the only way to relieve the pressure is to forget or to write. Sometimes the reservoir is not empty, but it is not full. So days pass, with ideas sketched in my brain or on paper or in conversations so that eventually they are unleashed in poems like this one. Living is a key component of writing.