Ernest Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.“
While I don’t have a typewriter quite yet (much less the time to sit down at one, or the stomach to handle the sight of blood)… I do carry a moleskine notebook in my purse and jot down verses whenever the mood strikes.
This year, I’ve been embracing the spectrum of emotions that come with life and change, and attempting to write them down, uninhibitedly.
Here’s a few verses from the pages of my moleskine, written over the last couple weeks.
The Wolf Inside
I tried to fly,
My sole desire,
Within a lucid dream.
Yet, I seek solace on the ground,
Beneath heavy gray skies
and swollen rain clouds,
Amongst the movement of bodies in city streets,
Packed like sardines.
If I were to jump-
If I were to fall-
Would falling, feel like flight-
Would I feel anything at all?
Or jolt awake from an eternal slumber.
The object of reality, a theatre, for my contemplation,
If I were to pick daisies,
To offer flowers at fate’s final curtain call-
Give my good tidings to the blood moon,
For the wolf inside, is hungry-
I can hear its howls catching my throat,
Through the cacophony of the city and
it cries out,
that something has gone terribly awry-
A restlessness, pounding, relentlessly in its chest,
as it takes on the frame,
of a woman
in the city
if she howls
if she jumps,
Will she awaken-
Ribbon on my Finger (The Trees Know)
I hold onto the syllables of your name
Tying a red ribbon around my finger,
To remind me of
who I am-
My identity ebbs and flows,
Like the river,
I wade into and float to
Where watching trees,
Are watered by the tears of
As the evergreens tell me they
grow stronger, as it rains
and that I will grow stronger, too-
Yet I feel so small
in the forest and
cannot remember why
there is a red ribbon is tied around my finger,
Cannot remember why my hands are heavy,
carrying the syllables of a name
which is not my own-
Following the river to forget
who I was,
who I am.
The trees know.
To Embrace a Shadow
She longed to wander through winding roads,
Along the border of Happenstance and Fate,
To the places she dreamt of seeing,
In a nostalgically foreign space.
The birds once told her,
She felt too deeply
For she was enamored by a shadow in the night-
While she, a hopeless romantic,
Craved a glimpse of the shadow’s light.
The birds warned her- do not care for a shadow,
But she did, nonetheless,
Allowed the shadow into her heart,
Held it against her breast.
Yet shadows play on darkened walls,
On strangers, passing by,
Captivating in their unpredictability,
Deaf to a scorned woman’s cries.
Mornings, when the bed is
more coffin than comfort,
Afraid to sleep in, that she may
never find it within herself
to wake up
for every man
who ever reached into her chest and
carved his name upon
the nervous thrum of her heart-
had taken in her into his arms,
in the morning light and
for a while,
She fooled herself into believing,
this meant something.
breakfast, and a toothbrush,
human decency, exalted as chivalry,
since when do we treat strangers,
better than lovers,
are the lines blurred between the two.
We walk, numb
we are taught intimacy is a collision of flesh and heated breath
sharing one’s body-
Connection, so scarce, in a culture
Why are we all so fucking terrified,
to actually feel.
because in breakfast, in a toothbrush,
in the quivering of her voice, as she leaves in
the early morning light-
we might just be forced to recognize,
ourselves in each other
and to admit-
you are human, too.
Thanks for reading,
x. Natasha Overin