When Kafka Said ‘you Wouldn’t Believe The Kind Of Person I Could Become If You Wanted It’ And When

Sometimes it feels like a lie to call myself a poet --

The world is a gorgeous, ethereal place --

All I've ever done is, do my best to use what little words I have to tell you what my eyes have happened to see, and, what my heart has happened to feel.

I'm just another of life's many plagiarists --

Stealing experiences for myself and pretending they're words born from my soul --

So what's the term, then, when the universe's machinations bring me across someone like you, and my heart is filled with so many words that I could write a thousand novels?

A poet?

A thief?

Or simply a woman with a mind, taken, filled to the brim by chance, with desire, need, and affection?

"Could you even describe the warmth of a glowing moon?" V. Rue, 2025.

Sylvia Plath

"I disappeared into books when I was very young, disappeared into them like someone running into the woods."

- Rebecca Solnit

12 May, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

Sixteen Miles Out

nah just cuddling ain't enough, I want to merge my soul with hers

some days progress feels as small as a single breath drawn in darkness - trembling, uncertain, barely there at all. but remember: even that whispered inhale is the universe continuing its ancient dance through your bones, even that fragile moment is your story refusing to end.

Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton; "Flee On Your Donkey,"