For me, melancholy has never been poetic.
It is a distasteful thing that runs deep.
It is guttural...
And unyielding...
And fearsome...
Sometimes it threatens to choke me;
It eats and eats and eats, but never has its fill.
For me, melancholy has never been poetic, however, when I can take it no more, I reach out and grasp a handful, spinning it into words. With words bleed comfort, illumination; respite, most of all.
For me, melancholy has never been poetic, but somehow, I make it so...
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Quiet women and other myths: A collection of musings
PoetryI wouldn't go so far as to call this poetry (which would imply that *I* am a poet), but I can safely call this a collection of musings, thoughts and sometimes badly strung up words about anything and everything.
