Notes From Inside My Bubble


[I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality] -Frida Kahlo

I can think of only one reason
For anyone wanting to be a poet

The indulgence of
Hands off
Inside a bubble

A sense of union with everything
And the complete and utter 
Abandonment of contrivance

The opportunity of 
Being inside life itself
While writing my way out
Through a Bayesian lens

The opportunity to allow
To just keep flowing

The opportunity to be
The wild eyed hopeful Dwarf
Collar turned up 
Against judgment
While exploring a sexual mind

The opportunity of being
A collector of real thoughts
Stripped to the ribs

The opportunity of seeing
Paper footprints
Regulating my memory
Of how happy I was

But also
The opportunity to decide
How happy do I want to be

That's always worth asking
When I wake 
And sweat one more page out

Not restricted by literary structure 
Of paragraph
Or sentence

Allowing me the freedom to 


One word 

At a time

Poetry is imagination
With elbow room

Getting rid of form 
Allows my train of thought 
To lay its own track
Across my wasteland

Is it possible to now imagine myself 
In another job
Other than that of
A labourer in a
High-falluting word-making factory?

[Your profession is not what brings in your weekly paycheck. Your profession is what you're put on earth to do, with such intensity that it becomes a spiritual calling - Vincent Van Gogh]

Welcome to the Factory

Are you the new work experience kid?

[The female writer that interests me the most is Sylvia Plath. Plath (1932 – 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. She is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry. She had started writing poetry from the age of 8. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, Plath suffered from depression for much of her adult life, and in 1963 she committed suicide. Plath died of carbon monoxide poisoning, having put her head in her kitchen oven, after sealing the rooms between herself and her sleeping children with wet towels. She died at 4.30am. She was 30 years old. Plath had described her depression as 'owl's talons clenching my heart'. In 1982, she won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize]