I was told today a poem takes time to write.
Not minutes or months, but years of time.
One must suffer, edit, cry and try.
And still, it will not be considered done.
I said I could write one in five or six minutes.
Depends on the due date and pressure I’m given.
I generally work like so, with no dimension or order.
But ideas do come and some pages they cover.
Am I less of a writer for writing this fast?
I do know discipline is what I really lack.
Amongst other things in which I am working on.
But a fast written text is not my low point.
I write constantly in my head.
Titles and characters. Plots and romance.
People who can never be together,
escape and go dance.
They never see the light, these people in my head.
I leave them unattended and try to look ahead.
My hands can’t hold a pen.
My mind is usually blocked.
Writing does not come easy, for a girl who wants it as a job.
I want to say so many things.
And word’s just don’t come out.
What’s to become of me?
If I can’t say what I feel and feel what I want.
One might think my destiny doomed.
I think so myself one morning out of two.
So I gave it a shot with this little poem.
And rhyme, I discovered, took longer and longer.
Half an hour, and more, to give it some sense.
To say what I wanted with a little grace.
I didn’t come up with a universal truth.
But five or six minutes would not have do.
No certainties were answered, no questions were explained.
Confusion still lingers, but I am off to bed.
It’s nine minutes to twelve.Tomorrow I must work.
But one thing I know now is that writing is absurd.
And may be if I am as absurd as it,
I might just be ok.