So, last night, in the middle of the night, I did a writing exercise, a stream of consciousness: write whatever comes into your head, don’t worry about punctuation, grammar doesn’t matter, don’t edit, don’t go back, don’t stop writing, it probably shouldn’t make sense. I was in one of my poem moods, where I can almost physically feel a poem in my throat and I need to get it out onto paper. What I’m going to do later is go through this stream of consciousness and pick out lines to form a poem, but I thought I’d share this raw little slice of emotional writing with you guys.
there are no words for the feeling in my chest the swelling crescendo the beckoning march the tickle of words waiting to erupt but given no entry no words are strong enough to capture the horror the wonder the storm i will scream and scream without hope of releasing i will fight a tiger climb a mountain ride a storm i will ride a mountain climb a tiger fight a storm i will i can i know i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i need air i need the words to tell you how i feel how to rise how to fly from the tops of trees from the tops of buildings from the top of my head i need so much more than im capable of getting i need to give a part of myself but i have no words and i cant draw a picture beautiful enough to express what im feeling there are no words what do i do what do i do help me im drowning flying falling crying laughing screaming help help help help help is it freedom is it love is it hatred is it horror am I learning should i help you should i help me do i need you do i need me do i need to spread six feathered wings or tell you of the six horned monsters under my bed is six important is it well is it tell me tell me now feathered hearts and souls and the wings of air that raise me upwards light and darkness the bottom of an oubliette the top of a tower there’s nothing to say there’s nothing to work there’s nothing to craft there’s nothing to shirk rhymes rhymes can they free me this time time no fuck off i have things to do places to go monologues to monologue i cant type fast enough theres music im breaking let my soul breathe let my body breathe let my nose breathe let the air breathe me am i alright now are you afraid now can i be alright now can i come with you now mother mother mother may i i don’t know how to make a poem i need to make a poem help me with my poem i need air there are no words how do i do it do i spew words into your throat is this what it’s like to read minds mummy help me theres a web theres a shield in my head it’s blocking out my soul mummy help me theres nightmares under my bed there’s nightmares under my bed please oh please someone help me theres nightmares under my bed they look like you mummy they look like you why do they look like you make them go away im screaming im screaming in my head not out loud never out loud theres a cacophony in my head this is what it’s like in my head sometimes other times most times all times no times am i a writer or a madman madwoman madperson is it like this for everyone am i special piano sisters on the other bed making noise is she worried its getting late theres darkness out my window is closed my window is open the fan is on my eyes are tired but i need to write a poem poem poem a thousand words a million words six words six six six again is it special is six special no its not its a multiple of three is three special is green special special special am i special do i need your help no i dont need your help go away i dont need you i dont what wait
That was intense, huh? This is the raw nebulous stuff writers make poems out of, like when baby stars coalesce out of clouds of space debris. When I go through it and pick out the poem I’ll share that with you too, and you can compare.