I struggle to create poetry. It’s never been my number one lover; my preferred medium to paint images with is a big bottle of narrative. Haiku is one thing, it’s poetry but bite-sized. If I can’t say it in seventeen syllables I give myself a thousand. Legal pads full of the description of a blue jay in an oak tree.
But poetry. I’ve always wanted to be better at it, to compose it more. Some nights (really) I wake up with verse in my head, fragments of dreams and heightened brain waves. By the time I reach for my red moleskin (so I can see it in the dark) the verse is gone, back to the spirit world, forgotten and swirled down the drain with spit and toothpaste.