My Process of Poetry

This is my process of poetry,

I guess it starts with me.

Well with myself and a whiskey.

It helps if I’m hurting,

If I regret something,

If I was upset by someone,

Or perhaps I’m just fed up of being alone.

Being alone is when one can really start to hone their craft.

You see poetry is a life raft.

And I’m drowning,

I clutch to it barely keeping my head above water.

It’s cannon fodder,

For all the shit life throws at you.

“Process” may have been a glorified way of putting it.

As if any of this was planned,

As if I planned for my gut to feel like fate was just twisting the knife,

The knife that life stabs us with.

It’s not really a “process,” in that I’m writing to feel better.

People ask who I write for,

And my answer is me.

Poetry is a completely selfish deed.

I’m not writing to please anyone,

I’m not writing to make anyone happy.

I’m writing because right now it’s easier to write than it is to sleep.

If my thoughts are on the page,

Then maybe they will do me a favour and get the fuck out my head.

So I guess it’s not a “process of poetry,”

But rather poetry is a process of me.

My process to breathe.