September 14, 2022

Writing is my Anchor & my Knife.


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I sit on my hard black chair topped with a travel zafu, multicolored with deep rich rust, orange, and cream.

The blank lined page in my eco-friendly, purple spiral notebook, remains empty.


Such is the curse of a writer, yet also a blessing.

Pen to paper, just write. Without a thought, sans a lift of the pen—just write.

The dam breaks in my grey matter, loosening trapped past, present, and future musings.

Garbage litters the page. Just write.

A poem emerges from tossed-out trash:

Writing—my anchor

And my knife cuts the cord

It wraps me in a warm green blanket

It unwraps me from my past

Words ignite the fire, the Agni

In my solar plexus

And pours cool water on my frazzled mind.

I close the cover on the notebook, place my pen on top, and rest my eyes. Tomorrow, I will return, refreshed.


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