When does poetry become a mother?

When your words complain like an infant, feed her a bottle of milk
but if she won’t stop crying cradle her into your bosom
treat words as if they are your babies-
they need to be nurtured like a vixen to her young

When your words stretch like a kneaded dough
cut them until they become sufficient enough to bake
treat words as if they are bread
learn to cut and estimate for the refinement of its quality

When your words stain like a blood on a shirt
wash then bleach them to attain one’s purity again
treat words as if they are your laundry-
a poem bleached and properly rinsed attracts attention on its readers

When your words jumble like the clothes inside your dresser
sort them out; see to it that everything is on its own proper place
treat words like clothes-
not a thing should clutter and scatters the poem into pieces

But when words
loosened leaves of a tree
sweep them and
leave them
for there are many more chores to do inside the house-

that’s the hardest thing in poetry,
abandoned beginnings,
losing hopes for the ones
you already have started-

giving birth to a new breed of poetry.

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