lolwhut

me: so, um.
writing a poem on one's writing process while blocked on other writing: kind of circular and ridiculous on a meta level, no?
avendya: Yes, a bit. :P

... GUESS WHAT I DID LAST NIGHT, YOU GUYS. /o\ On the plus side, I haven't managed a new poem in four months, so I guess I can count that as my win for day 5.

notes on a harvest;

In my heart there lies a seed.
It has no thirst for water,
no need for soil or daylight-
it thrives best in the borderlands between
waking & dreaming & (mostly) prefers
insomniac hours to sunny afternoons.

(Such seeds are finicky even for
greener thumbs than mine; they are
picky about their fertilizers &
no two will ever germinate
under exactly the same conditions.)

It suffers from a curious sensitivity-
too much observation will kill it, or
send it back into dormancy;
too little & it will die of neglect-
so that the gardener does not succeed through wisdom but
sheer bloody-mindedness &
the patience to discover when to look closely,
when to turn one's back & tend to other fields.

Then, in the meantime,
somewhere inside me a story grows
in tentative stalks;
shoots unfurling leaf by leaf;
ripens slowly into crops of
strange & fragile fruits.