What a writer thinks during a 45 minute free write session

Cracking open a new book of poetry is like taking a portal into another mind, another world. A good poem has texture and fills the senses with longing to connect with the writer. We want to feel connected, loved, a glowing tribute. We want to feel our hearts fall through our stomachs as we relive the moment we fall in love until the time we break up. We read poetry to feel and relive moments. A snapshot. A glimpse. An intake of breath. Inhale. Exhale. A warm hug and a tug on the heartstrings. A solitary tear of joy or sadness. A flash of anger and despair. But what do these feelings look like? They say the strength of writing is in the strength of nouns and verbs. But what good are they when you can’t understand the scene? What is the scene?


As I glance around my home, what drives emotions? Is it my peach coloured coffee cup that reads “Today’s Mood: Bitchy with a Chance of Sarcasm?” Is it my pitbull knocking cushions from the couch and my furtive glance in his direction as I find him about to chew my flip flop? And yes, that really did just happen. Or watching the cockatiel play on his swing or dance on his perch, bobbing his head to and fro? In spite of my sister’s terrorist cat attempting another climb on the cage, the bird enjoys the picture window and communicating with his cousins. Bird communication; is that a chirp or a tweet? 

I feel frustration as I realize all the items that he and I have collected over the years. My traveling sister’s belongings are part of the collection. 

Then I think, am I too wordy? Did I use too many weak verbs? Too much description? Do you really need to know my coffee cup is peach coloured? Or that the battery on my laptop is already running low on charge because I have been typing and creating sentences to fill the canvas of this page for the past twenty minutes? 

Maybe I should check Facebook. Maybe I should shut my account down altogether since all it offers is drama and low energy. Why is that? Who gave people the permission to forgo their manners and decency on a public forum? Should you not behave better? Am I getting off topic of what poetry is about? Maybe poetry is one of the answers to literature for an attention span that lasts all of two minutes.

Then I realise that this is prose and not the best form of prose and, omygoodness, itneedssooooooomuchediting. Did I mention I want to go to Paris and Melanie said it was my kind of place? I want to know what it’s like to keep falling in love and never leave. 

But who cares about my thoughts if I can’t make you feel. 

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