Spiral: Just Make Yourself Write by Richaundra Thursday

Descriptive, except no, no message, no purpose, don’t waste words, a rose by any other name will still burn in this ecological apocalypse.

Lyrical, except no, what do I, the Patron Saint of Passing Privilege have to amplify, to make sublime?

Spiral, round and round like a novelty Christmas present your grandparents ordered off a TV call number, all geometric chaos and oroborous fears.

Prescriptive? Do as I say, not as I do: drink water, hate yourself less, keep writing, keep fighting, remember you’re not alone; except I won’t make a gospel cento of better poets prayers.

Spiral, like unnecessarily ornate staircases, slick with insecurity but no guard rails, rising like blood pressure.

Narrative, surely you’ve got stories, surely they’re worth telling, surely they won’t waste time with their prosaic mediocrity, surely one of them hasn’t been told a hundred times before…

Spiral like a middle school fortune telling game masquerading as a worksheet doodle, inconsequential and life changing all at once, spiral like a frozen yogurt on a hot day, thoughts melting like there’s no difference between sunlight and gaslight

Edutainment, but what if it’s too niche, too specific, too obscure, too nerdy, too…

Spiral, spiral, like a blank notebook, a composition of eraser rubbings of all the songs you talk yourself out of writing.

“Just speak from the heart” as if it, like the muscle it is, never Charlie horse betrayed you

“Just speak your truth” as if your brain was your friend, as if it didn’t create conspiracy theories where the entity that somehow manages to control every aspect of life while simultaneously being utterly incompetent, is you

A poet is a pandora’s box, a mistranslated vase full of spoiled oil, dead flies and at the very bottom, hope. And just like the story, we find ourselves unsure if this is a balm or an epilogue to the pains held in our plaster, if the muse is a gift or a punishment for sins unlikely our own.

Every poet I know is a necromancer, resurrecting skeletons to dance on a graveyard stage, tango with tombstone microphones. We are all warlocks, making deals with our inner demons like diet pills full of tapeworms: you can consume me, chew me up from the inside out, if you’ll just please make me what they want.

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