“You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting- over and over announcing your place In the family of things.”
— “Wild Geese,” Mary Oliver
"Why do you write poetry?" by Shinji Moon
Because I have forgotten everything else.
Because there are questions that no one has answered. Because there are dreams that have snuck up from behind me and left burns in the places that I can’t reach with just my hands, with just my skin. Because there are muscles that I’ve only just discovered the uses for. Because there is no other place for me to go but here, a place where there are only more questions - only more metaphors, only more excuses. Because I’m scared of cutting into myself with a knife, and have found that this page is an incision, that these words are sharper than the blades that people have dug into their stomachs. Because there is light just as much as there is darkness; because the man who works in the falafel truck on Third Ave no longer knows my name. Because there is such a thing as love. Because there is no such a thing as love. […] I write because I am finally giving in to my own name, am no longer running from where I have come from and am no longer running towards anything and because the only place where I can feel myself feel is in paper. Because margins are no longer cutting it for me. Because there are gaps between teeth and gaps between people and people still wonder why there is such a thing as loneliness. Because there are dead that don’t want to rest. Because there are living that want to be dead. Because my Writing Teacher told me that my favorite author was an asshole. Because I’m trying to prove that I exist, that I’m alive, that I’m not a mistake but something blooming. Because there is still no cure for sorrow. […] Because I have seen love - have witnessed love, have touched love, have fought with love, have tried to drown love only to see it again one morning, making me coffee in the kitchen - humming a song that I thought I had forgotten. Because there are people that I’m scared to call. Because when I think of voicemails I think of bad news. […] Because there is a world that I will never see. Because you broke my heart. Because I broke yours. Because we still don’t understand how that could be so. Because. Because. Because I still love you. Because I always will. Because you are the most honest verse I have ever never written. Because fuck poetry. Because fuck me. Because please. Because yes. Because you.