How I (Don’t) Write

How I (Don’t) Write

I never know how to begin my poems
I am always a sentence too late
I think in Austen
every emotion spelled out
even hollow words feel the weight
a tidal crash of all the
words I want to remember
anger, yearning, joy, contentment
at times, they come like a whiplash
at others, they rain like confetti
yet I end up at Wilde
complex emotions superglued in a zipped file
aphorisms that keep me whole
but leave you out
poetry that draws you in
but you can’t figure it out
I read my words over and over
standing on the edge
looking for the next
you see, Bukowski had it wrong
for the words don’t always come bursting out
I can paint my entire universe
on the back of my hand
but I’ll leave out the hurt
for my sorrow thrives in solitude
it asks 10 times
before it takes a home in my words
wanting to be left unseen
safest in the gaps and spaces in-between
It’s not easy being a writer
without letting you know who I am
so I end my poems a sentence too early
in the hope that you don’t find me yet

– Manasi Varwandkar

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