It doesn’t have a start
or an end—
just the hum,
the buzz of your brain
in silence.
Internal electricity.
You try to catch it—
like lightning,
try to sculpt
something:
words,
clay,
paint on a stretcher canvas.
But it doesn’t escape.
The tight grip
on your chest.
Eyes behind eyes.
Screens
before mirrors
before windows.
The buzz in your head
blending
into the melody
of fluorescent lights.
Poetry is a state which catches me off guard,
in some corner of time,
between the shadows of a slow Sunday
and the nameless light of an empty street.
It doesn't come from a book or from a dream;
it rather comes with the subtle echo of days
and the quiet touch of hours—
a way the universe might reveal somehow
in its nakedness, within its fissures.
a whisper of itself: of the invisible.
I don't know how I can express what I feel,
or how to name it.
