It makes total sense of course, it’s absurd to think
I would stop
I would stunt
For the sake of a number, when if
This form this genre this tool that allows me to be elusive be cryptic be safe in simple stanzas and mysterious metaphors
This medium if it brings forth from the fury the confusion the forthrightness that seems to stubbornly exist in my soul
Part confession
Part method
I verbalize to crystallize what the fuck has transpired what is hard wired as opposed to what is my fire

I say
I tell
I write
I confess
And as I do
I figure out
I sort
I release
I expel
I accept

One summer
One hundred poems
One year
One hundred poems
One hundred prayers
One hundred cries
One hundred maps
One hundred snapshots
Of my soul, my fragility, my journey
One hundred moments

And when the truth was ugly
I decorated it with rhyme
And when the story was awkward
I told it with poetry
And when the pain was awful
I wrote it with rhythm
And when there was shame
I used words to sift it down to its golden empathy

Poetry is my therapy.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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