Argh! Break through form you say. And how is that to be achieved? Poetry, damn it, what is my poetry? Why can I not see beauty in the tiniest of things? And if I can, why don’t words capture it? 3 impressions remember: mind, body, heart and soul. Well, no body. Where is one to start? How is one to start?
I don’t know if I can write.
Mind: Of course you can. It isn’t hard or hard at all. You’re sitting out here in the freezing cold aren’t you? What more of a true poet can you be?
I have a companion. Two, in fact. A bird that sits resolutely with his back to me. I am not worth his notice. And wind, that whistled for my attention but has disappeared now. I am not worth his attention. Where is my poetry?
Heart: In me. Look hard enough, cease to ignore me and you shall find it.
How? How does one look? I do not understand you, I cannot understand you. I am trying but you seem empty or filled with confusion.
My friend still ignores me
How do I sort you out?
Soul: Bugger it. Who even knows what the soul is?
Where is my poetry?
Can one cheat in writing? Fake it all effectively. Write fiction for non fiction, invent emotions to beef up words that will not come?
How do I make them come? How do I make them good, readable, beautiful, Poetry?
I am cold. My friend ignores me still. Winter, though, has reached out a loving hand, freezing mine in return.
The wind is back. I take it winter does not approve of the last statement. Who shall read this? Why should one want to?
Turn the page, says the wind. Start afresh. But it is too late for that. I am lost in identity, perception–
My friend just flew past me, not an inch away from my ear. I heard and felt his wings as they whipped past. I never saw his face.
I am cold. I am very cold.
As I get up to leave, the wind blows me a kiss.
She knows I will not return.