Blank
written by: Mihaela Melnic
“You write good poetry, you know,”
they used to tell me
after seeing those flowers and rivers
I had snatched from their natural
environment to bring at their feet.
I didn’t know where else to start
in those days, to be true and translucent,
so I rhymed as if I had lived a thousand lives
and only needed a blank page to fill up.
I allowed them to vivisect
my soul and they cut, carved, scraped
deeper and deeper,
and when they got to the bone
they said, “You write raw poetry, you know?”
So I went on and poured my viscera
into a few open, hungry minds.
It was a bit like emptying a reservoir that was
overflowing with dangerous fuel.
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