Photo by Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash

it’s not like they gave
birth to me, it’s more
like walking through
a forest covered in
cobwebs in the deep
of night, it’s when the
village elders check
your body for remnants
and find nothing. this
is when you must be
broken and affixed,
flaws masked with
growth, and there is
the fire of inspiration
cowing, and there is
the hand that moves
without guidance, like
bullets into the sea, like
one’s first knife into an
artery, like the first cry
of a man being born.

Blog time: I have this thing where I’ve always been struggling to think of people who have influenced my writing. Being more a writer than a reader when I started, I guess I didn’t have proper influence during my ‘formative years’ as a writer. While later on, I did find plenty of poets who I drew inspiration from, Siken being a big one, my internal dilemma was that it wasn’t as though all my poetry were inspired by them, and neither was the influence that apparent: I learned to play with spacing from Siken, but I could have done the same from someone else, etc. I feel a bit guilty because if you asked me right now what influences my writing, I feel like I can only say music and I know that should be ok but somehow I’m not happy with it. Perhaps part of the dilemma in finding the influences behind my writing is that it would also help identify my writing style, and allow me to describe it, and that too may be a fight worth fighting.

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