I begin with the nurture of images, and soon I am breathing out the language of Poetry.
Trapped within the four corners of a viewfinder, I envision my verse. There I am, caged, muted in the silence of the wilderness. There is no sound. Everything is unsympathetic.
Like a camera, my eyes sweep in every direction; see everything, now in black and white, now colored in actions and variations. They are my windows on reality. They quest and seek for the truth. They know no pretense.
I write what my eyes witness, but like a photographer, I choose my own angle. I yearn for pain, for only then can I write my poetry. I write to escape my pain.
Writing is more than a mere passion. It is an addiction, a special kind of madness. Pain glides through my flesh; it is a drug, a narcotic. It is transcendental. It moves freely, in the dark lurking in my deepest slumber.
Poetry is intoxicating. I ramble around the quadrangle of a blank sheet, cram the page with words, with fragments and stanzas, just the way I frame my subjects with my viewfinder. I offer every part of myself in my poetry, as self-sacrifice. I submit myself to the higher God. I am not afraid to die for words. I am a martyr, a minion of Art, who will do what she can and try to describe what she cannot, in any way possible.
When I write, I withdraw from humanity. To write is to examine more of yourself. I confine myself in the corner, squat on the floor, lie down and hitch one leg on a table. When writing becomes unbearable, I cry for a while, and then write again. I envy the mystery of darkness. That is why, most of the time, I write in the throbbing silence of the night, until the break of dawn when the sky turns apricot as if dabbed like a painting.
A photographer takes a picture of anything that is pleasing to the lens. With a similar motive, I write death and bliss, knives and smiles. Writing is traveling with words; there is movement on every corner of the page, just as in photography, in which there is a story in every picture.
In writing, there is no such thing as a failure, because the only failure in writing is when you get tired of it and stop doing it. It is a photographic journey where you stumble when criticized and humbly rise from the wrongs to face the truth.
A poet is a photographer. She has a gallery of images inside her mind. She has a powerful, honed sense of sight, for she sees the uniqueness in every mundane thing. She is a lone traveler trapped inside a viewfinder, raring to exhibit each of the crafted portraits of herself to the keen eyes of her audience, as every picture has its own story to tell.
Trapped within the four corners of a viewfinder, I envision my verse. There I am, caged, muted in the silence of the wilderness. There is no sound. Everything is unsympathetic.
Like a camera, my eyes sweep in every direction; see everything, now in black and white, now colored in actions and variations. They are my windows on reality. They quest and seek for the truth. They know no pretense.
I write what my eyes witness, but like a photographer, I choose my own angle. I yearn for pain, for only then can I write my poetry. I write to escape my pain.
Writing is more than a mere passion. It is an addiction, a special kind of madness. Pain glides through my flesh; it is a drug, a narcotic. It is transcendental. It moves freely, in the dark lurking in my deepest slumber.
Poetry is intoxicating. I ramble around the quadrangle of a blank sheet, cram the page with words, with fragments and stanzas, just the way I frame my subjects with my viewfinder. I offer every part of myself in my poetry, as self-sacrifice. I submit myself to the higher God. I am not afraid to die for words. I am a martyr, a minion of Art, who will do what she can and try to describe what she cannot, in any way possible.
When I write, I withdraw from humanity. To write is to examine more of yourself. I confine myself in the corner, squat on the floor, lie down and hitch one leg on a table. When writing becomes unbearable, I cry for a while, and then write again. I envy the mystery of darkness. That is why, most of the time, I write in the throbbing silence of the night, until the break of dawn when the sky turns apricot as if dabbed like a painting.
A photographer takes a picture of anything that is pleasing to the lens. With a similar motive, I write death and bliss, knives and smiles. Writing is traveling with words; there is movement on every corner of the page, just as in photography, in which there is a story in every picture.
In writing, there is no such thing as a failure, because the only failure in writing is when you get tired of it and stop doing it. It is a photographic journey where you stumble when criticized and humbly rise from the wrongs to face the truth.
A poet is a photographer. She has a gallery of images inside her mind. She has a powerful, honed sense of sight, for she sees the uniqueness in every mundane thing. She is a lone traveler trapped inside a viewfinder, raring to exhibit each of the crafted portraits of herself to the keen eyes of her audience, as every picture has its own story to tell.
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