What is poetry, even? How do you know if something is poetic or not if it doesn’t follow rhyme or reason or meter? I remeber writing some poetry almost intuitively when I was younger and it was fun. Over the years, I lost the skill – maybe to overthinking, to finding that perfect way with word. It was never enough to let the words flow becasue there was always the first draft, the second draft, revisions and edits, all the things that ruined the fun for me. And it never was that complicated. You want a poem? You write a poem.

A little throb in the back of the head,
the pain is there, it means I’m not dead.
It pulses and beats, it goes and it comes.
It follows the rhythm of the hell marching drums.
It’s turning my thoughts to gelatinous mush
It’s whacking and poking; I want it to hush.
It’s there, all around, a madhouse, a hive.
And yet it is welcome. It says ‘you’re alive.’

Last modified on 14 September 2026