Everybody wants to be a poet

▶ Everybody wants to be a cat – The Aristocats

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Poems save my soul and writing them lift the weight of it I have to carry everyday. They’re my touchstone, my benchmark, my compass. Having written almost 20 poems in less than 16 years of life probably doesn’t make me a poet, I’m too young and inexperienced. Maybe one day I will, but who knows… this competition is ruthless. Everybody wants to be a poet and thinks they actually are. So, that begs the question: what makes you a poet and, above all, what makes you better than another one?
I guess it depends on the readers. What can make someone feel something, isn’t sure to be making another person feel the same. People are so changeable and fickle, different.

Well, of course, you can base your criteria to judge who’s the best in this area by analyzing the form, the external appearance of their poems: but, big news for the ones who loves to write prose and their idea of poem isn’t stuck in the 14th century with Chaucer, poets stopped caring about how a poem is formally written since last century. You can literally say “The sun is shining and the sky is blue” and, if you give it a title and decide that’s a poem, it is. Isn’t that terrific? 

Well, not really. At least, not in my opinion. I take the view that poems are made for those who are truly willing to understand them, not for those who need to learn them because their English teacher told them to. The world of poetry is a world apart and, call me selective, for the chosen few only. You don’t need Jesus from the Heavens to be told that you’re one of them, you just need to attend to it the majority of your time. It needs to be your passion, what makes you truly feel, what you live for and of, basically. I don’t think I’m being too exaggerated because that’s what I do on a regular basis.

Poetry is silent, something which involves your mind, your soul, your heart, and only eventually your fingers (to hold your pen). Poetry doesn’t need advertising. Poetry is innate, but needs to be understood and supported by whom believes in its power.

In conclusion… okay, write a few verses and fill your Instagram bio with terms such as poet , living for poetry, etcera… But don’t expect to be taken seriously.

@layalke 🐍

The singing butler

“It’s so simple, my dear friend! Read her eyes and look into her soul: she wants you to belong to her and she wants to belong to you!”

Those words got stuck in John’s head, and they had been doing so since their speaker, Mr V, pronounced them. And now, as he proceeded to dance with her and had to search for her face because she kept her eyes down, John realised he did agree with Mr V. Mr V was completely right and he understood that when it was too late. 

“Please Annie… Look at me.” He begged in vain.

Graceful and elegant, she continued to dance on the top of her bare feet, careful not to step onto the incredibly clear puddle next to her. 

“Mrs Annie… You may desire an umbrella to hold!” Her old servant said.

“Why should have I? It isn’t raining.” She whispered. Or maybe she screamed. John couldn’t really tell: when you’re in love, everything sounds like a harmless and soft whispering.

“Annie, I implore you… Look at me. One last time.” John’s voice was just like a broken record player. 

Her breasts against his, her velvet glove on his shoulders, her face turned around, her hair wrapped up, her bare back and her shapely backside. She was the most genuine and charming creature John’s eyes had ever had the pleasure to see.

“My friend… I’m willing to lend you my umbrella! Just, for the Queen’s sake, stop it! You’re going to get ill, believe me.”

“Sir, what are you talking about?”. John was quite perplexed: before Annie’s governant, now Mr V… What did it all mean?

Mr V said something that John couldn’t hear because Annie dragged him away. Finally, but still keeping her face distant, she told him: “Now they won’t disturb us”.

They were far enough to be kissing and not be seen, so John seized that moment and decided to stop their dance and lend towards the woman’s lips. He had been telling himself: “Okay, now I’m stopping… now I am…” when he realised he couldn’t, he just wasn’t able to. His mind didn’t control anymore his legs, they were moving by themselves and this paralysed John’s features. 

“Do not try to stop, you won’t”. Annie said effortlessly.

The last thing John’s eyes saw were her, the woman he had always loved and cared for. He couldn’t move; Annie was his mastermind, John was her puppet. At the end, he really did belong to her.

@layalke 🐍

I can’t write

▶ Writing’s on the wall – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Being told once I’d got a bad writing was not a big deal. Being told twice started to get on my nerves; then the third, fourth, fifth and so on were a little bit of a bitter pill to swallow, especially because I know that the world of writing is my world, the world I belong to. The logic and reasonable part of my brain has always told me not to focus on the people who send me such bad vibes, but you’ll understand it when I say that it’s really hard.

A short time ago, one of my teachers told me: “If you didn’t write interesting texts, I wouldn’t even read your essays”. Well, ok, thank you?! What am I supposed to say?

Lately this has effected my creativity in a way I didn’t think was possible. I consider myself to be quite a calm and sensible person, therefore that logic and reasonable part of my brain I quoted before is the one I trust and use the most; but, as childish as it is, I cannot avoid to take this personally. 

I’m trying my best, believe me, mostly because I know that my writing could affect the mark of my essays, but I don’t feel motivated at all. I like my tiny and uptight writing, and you know me, I’m not going to change something I don’t mind about myself just because a few people do

At the end of the day, I am the one who stays alone with my words only, with those words that are apparently so hard-criticized but save me, in a way; when the words you write are what helps you go through the day without a mental breakdown, you get so attached to them that you consider them to be a part of yourself, part of who you are and who you will ever be. Now you understand how important this blog is to me; it represents my freedom when it comes to writing.

Let me write what I want, let me write as I want; I’m not asking for anything else. And, if you won’t, I will anyway. 

@layalke 🐍