I’m A Little Teapot

Well, to pour out, I think,

Spilling calmly and coolly from the mind and fingers,

Not necessarily satisfied but just

Enough to

Let you have some respite a short while.

I think human beings are expressive creatures like all animals and all living things.

Holding things in is genuinely a health hazard for us, that's how bad it is.

But spilling is difficult, especially because

Emotions aren't something you can make another person feel,

Nor are experiences.

I often marvel at the fact that my twin and I

Were born around the same time and have lived together for always, yet

Like and dislike and give a damn about

Such different things.

Like all creatives, poets want to spill out.

Like all nature, things have to be let go of at some point.

Cycles and movement and flow and all that.

The natural go of things.

So some people paint and some sing and some dance and most do all of these in their different ways,

And poetry then is pretty stories and journal entries

That are happy-go-lucky or swirly painful suffocating

That help us breathe a little easier for a

Little while sometimes.

Distractions for reader and writer alike.

A place to release a small piece of your small, homey, self-ful infinity.

They aren't always pretty but we try to make them so,

Even without fully thinking about it.

I used to think being a poet was all about rhyme and stanza and perfection

And then I read some Bukowski and some

Kaur

And I read enough magic to realise

It's just a cup that runneth on over

In split-up lines and parts

Like all other writing.

Nothing special and

Everything that is magical

All at once.

I like that about people.

Everything we create is more masterwork from the hands because

It comes from somewhere and someone

With a heart and a maybe soul?

I like that we create things.

That we build these giant rectangular-ish things to nest in

And other rectangles to sleep in

And often write onto or type into more rectangles for some momentary

Relief.

And I like that no matter how good or bad the things I send out into the world might be,

It is mine.

And it always will be mine.

And no matter how similar it is to anyone's, nobody can ever take that away from me.

My mind is my mind,

My poetry is my poetry,

My madness is my madness.

People may bear witness for a moment, be moved, be bored

But I'm not here for them.

I do not write for them.

I never truly have.

The pen can only mean something to the being who creates with it.

My phone and I have many more

Little scratchings on the wall to go.

And many more happy-go-lucky, swirly painful suffocating experiences,

Drifting in and through and away,

To fuel them.