At this exact moment I am eyeing a pile of printed out pages to my right entailing script material to edit and a blue-inked writing book to my left. Although I feel compelled to grab the writing book and spill ink… I am going to edit today. (BOO!)
I came across a collection of books at my parents’ house that belonged to my Great Grandfather on my father’s side whose name is Henry Potter (hear that JK?). I thought it was funny that I named my dog Henry (as shown).
The book I picked up is called Library of Little Masterpieces. I started reading it one day when I wanted to light my script on fire… and it got me thinking about all of the poetry I used to read.
Henry Potter actually signed the inside cover and dated it 1909 which I thought was cool and also creepy, like graveyards I guess.
The poem I wrote yesterday has had 85 views so far and has been getting excellent feedback.
Funny how things unravel. I travelled to NYC to find a direction to my writing. Maybe it’s working?
Or maybe I’m just writing poetry because I love to do it and it keeps me sane in between scripting?
Here’s a poem I wrote this morning:
why poets fall in love every day
You know how the wind changes direction?
The shoulders of a cyclone. Resistance
blowing in your face like a reflection.
Move with the weather, accept a new dance.
Won’t you let me write you love poetry?
Translation of divinity to words.
How energy travels from you to me…
If only verse is how it can be heard.
My inky adoration. Permanent
as you wash off the scent of another;
Every word is yours once it has been sent.
So you understand why I don’t bother…
We’re forced to adjust each day. Circumstance.
If life is a gamble, love is a chance.