The OtherSide Poetess

I miss my words as they were.

I miss that fever, that stomach rush when a phrase launches me into a poet trance or a prose-hole.

I miss the story idea, the conjuring and calling forth of characters living and breathing and growing inside me.

I miss my inability to shut up in the swamp of misery or obsessive lust.

I miss those who inspires the best in me.

I miss focused me, creative me, tortured artist me.

Content squashes passion.
Loss of hope helps you become stagnant and I’ve always said unrequited love and misery is my muse fire.



Nothing more than this.
How do you know?
I learned it.
No one teaches these things.
Life isn’t someone.