POETRY

HOW COULD I NOT?

HOW COULD I NOT?

A guy recently asked me

»Why do I like words so much?«

And when I opened my mouth

All that came out was »How could I not?«

He looked at me at a loss for words

We couldn't continue our conversation anymore

Because I couldn't make him understand

What the novels, the poetry, the words

Mean to me.

You see, a part of me

Didn't know what to tell him.

Because how I feel about writing goes beyond words

And it's not something I could easily describe.

But I can try.

Whenever I find a ryhme in my speech

It's like a gift under the Christmas tree.

It's like a gift under the tree,

Because I didn't expect it, I didn't plan it,

But it happened,

And it happened so spontaneously

It feels like some sort of radiancy.

Whenever I put words in the right order

That creates something beautiful

It feels as if the air left my lungs and I forgot how to breathe.

I forgot how to breathe

And that prefectly structured sentence stays with me.

And I cannot forget it.

Until a new one comes along

And makes me learn how to walk.

Whenever I create a new world

With nothing bu tink and paper

It's like I rip myself apart.

It's like my heart

Can't bear another person living inside me

So it tears a peice of itself

Only to keep a new-comer warm.

And so my heart constantly changes in form.

Whenever my finger pour out a new poem

With a pen, it never feels like a stranger

In my home

-the notebook pages.

A new poem always feels a little bit

Like gasping for air

When you've been holding your breath

For so long. Or like

Gasping for air when you've been drowing in your thoughts

For years

But now you can finally let go of your fears.

Words feel like home

After you've been travelling for moths

And just now you've realized

You get to sleep in your house.

The words feel like the change

No one actually likes