I guess the thing that eluded me first
was words. Poetry didn't flow out of me like a divine diarrhea (waiting for an open mic stage where people are half listening and half going over their poems praying you don't read another one). Is it because poetry didn't know which pore to seep out of and witness for herself just how lost and found I really am? I have no idea what I am seeing for the first time and I am without stanza or cause Empty. Like tears that aren't mine. I have felt fear for so long What better to replace it with than Jazz on rustic historic stone shining pebbles that dare call themselves a street in Edinburgh. So far from home.
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Tayllor JohnsonThis is my reality as I see it in stanzas as I study Psychology, English, and French in Scotland. Archives
May 2014
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