Todays prompt involved
poets reading their own work.
It’s like seeing a movie before reading the book.
I want a poet to take me into his world, make my phantasy fly, my creativity rumble like lava in a volnaco, before a magestic eruption.
Not that I consider my soulfluffs something special, let alone a magistic eruption. But I hope that once in a while someone is touched, made to think, or just takes a moment wo hear a bird whistle or watch a cloud pass by.
It’s when Max ridiculed me that I decided my poetry is nothing more than my expression. I won’t let others decide for me, guide me, tell me what’s right or wrong.
So many things in my life were the consequence of what is decent, kind, nice…. as I was supposed to be all that. One could substitute a robot for me.
It left me with a feeling of loneliness many poets would envy.
I’m not happy with my life… I know I can be more relaxed, happy, more myself.
It’s not my motivation that is lacking, nor my imagination, nor opportunity.
There’s has always been the lack of money. Not a lack of money, but THE lack of money, like a dominant feature in my life that keeps me pinned to my chair, hidden in my cluttered house and above all imprisoned in a way of life that after all these years still feels alien.
Max succumbed to life itself. Cancer has a way of taking over the process. And even though he always stood beside daily life in the city, he was a part of it, and became more part of it during the last years of his life.
He didn’t want me to witness it.
And now I’m stuck with all those images of him being different from others, trying to make me free.
I was shy, limited by what others wanted, bordered by my own expectations which were almost always outside myself.
I now see it as being pulled away, always being pulled away from what I needed, should do, deserved…
Only a bit of fluff blown away in the wind, dancing, free, just fading out of sight.
Not having the money to move to the UK, where I belong, no family members who leave me the inheritance of a small cottage, not even a job luring in a corner so I can use my talents…
It’s like I’ve been born to be small, be silent, be nothing.
And even though Corona hasn’t changed a lot in my daily life, – it’s always about caring for others, unseen, – I’m tired.
All I have is my imagination. Are my dreams of writing a book at a small table in a cottage garden, rumbling around, hearing the birds, and the waves of the sea. Walking through the sand, with maybe a beagle or another dog.
I don’t ask much…. just a bit of me….