I haven’t written poetry since I decided to leave the University of Baltimore’s MFA program a year ago. Maybe it’s because I have also been off my anti-depressant for about a month but I seem to feel the emptiness within my stomach where words and passion used to lie.

I remember being asked during my bachelors where I thought poetry came from within ourselves, and how much I disagreed with the idea it living in our mind or within our fingers. If poetry comes from our fingers then it’s the dirt under our fingernails–the fuzz you pick off your hangnail after it snags on your sweater. To me, poetry lives within me in a place people would rather not talk about at parties; a place more personal and one we scratch while no one is looking. A bit more gross but oh, so satisfying.

 

garbage

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