I know, art isn’t always pain.

I never know what to write here. Sometimes I open up a new draft and sit down and at worst it’s like my brain got drunk and passed out. At best I’m the airport attendant who issues you your boarding pass and checks your bags, only no one is in line and there aren’t any flights going anywhere, so what am I to do? Just twiddle my thumbs and imagine all the trips I’d love to take.

It’s not just writer’s block or a lack of ideas. I think there’s plenty in my life that would be interesting to write about. I think that’s the case for most of us even though we struggle with the words. I recently read the book Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert at the behest of one of my favourite co workers. She’s someone who really gets me and could pretty much be me we are so in synch. When she recommended I read it, I bumped it in line ahead of 5 other booked recently lent to me to read and plowed through it in 2 days.  Not because I’m a huge fan of Elizabeth Gilbert (I only read the first 100 pages of Eat, Pray, Love, although I do mean to finish it), but because it seemed like a pretty relevant book to me at this point in my life. She talks a lot about creative living, inspiring the reader to create, create, create like it’s our birthright… because it is. I remember when I started this blog I felt like it was a major channel for my own creative living. I basically rediscovered my love of poetry because I decided to open a wordpress account one day. A lot of my poems exist because I suddenly had this empty canvas to put them on. This blog, though monstrously neglected, means a lot to me because I know it’s here, waiting for me. My own little universe of creative living.

I think one of the biggest things I took from the book is that your art doesn’t have to come at the cost of your happiness. You don’t have to be pained to be an artist, although it sure fuels a lot of creative work. When I think about it, though, when you’re happy, you’re happy, right? You have all this happiness energy that you exude and pour out into the world, to the people around you, and it’s a joy to do. Happiness energy is readily accepted by those around you, it amps up the happiness energy in others and everyone falls into this trap of idiotic bliss where everything is possible, so why not conquer the world? But when you’re hurt, you have to try to contain it somehow. You have to go to work, to the store, and unless you’re an asshole you have to do your best to contain the pain inside yourself so that it doesn’t taint others. And that’s where the art comes in. Since we can’t let the pain loose like we can with happiness we have to put it somewhere, right? Something has to diffuse it or it’ll destroy you. At least that’s why I think I put so much of it into poetry, and the rest of it I just dance or yoga out. After channeling all my hurt into a poem at least I can look at it and say it was all for something.

I’m not saying I only enjoy writing and creating when I’m miserable, I love creating all the time, it’s just that it feels more necessary and potent at times when I’m at critical breaking point, you know?

Semi-related, but did you guys know there’s an awesome poetry community over on instagram? I’ve been posting a lot of smaller poems there, random thoughts that come into my head (even the happy ones!) If you guys are also on there leave your name in the comments so I can find you! You can find me over there as @taehreh.

Hope you all have a beautiful day!

another round

here we go, another round in the
boxing ring. you against me this time
goody for you, I think you may have won.
how dull, hum drum, just another woman
who loves you. set the doll aside, its
weeping eyes can put out a fire before
it combusts. I heard energy cannot be
destroyed, only transformed, and this
woman, too, like the fruit flies who pop
persistently in and out of existence from
nowhere. off to find another painful body
to experience, hopefully one a bit better
suited this time, or at least with some very fine
armour. one with white white teeth and some
plump, pink lips that you’d happily bleed
to be swallowed by.
after all you’re that kind of a guy.
I think that last punch wasn’t
even thrown by your good side.
save the worst for last, like someone
else I used to know. strike low blow
after low blow. hey, here’s some space
for you. I have miles of it, you couldn’t
find me with the Hubble telescope.
how’s this? can you feel me again?
can you taste this waning love on your
tongue like yesterday’s leftovers?
pack it up and don’t forget to toss
it in the trash after the fact cause
you never meant to bring it home in
the first place.

letters

Before
the letters fell
in pieces between
the lines, I thought
maybe I’d glimpsed
that one word:
love.

I rolled over
to catch my breath
sometime after
that.

April blizzards

Winter has been showing Toronto how tenacious it can be by giving us a couple blizzards so far this spring. Or maybe Spring is just being lazy and Winter is being a great friend and covering for it.

April blizzards,
the most bashful
of snowflakes
finally work up 
the courage
to fall.

Screen Shot 2016-04-13 at 11.51.04 AM

I don’t mind, really. I love snow.

Happy hump day 😉

sweet chaos

I can smell the
universe on your skin
like a sweet chaos
ravishing me, waging
war on my senses
and
I’m falling like a
petal grooming the wind,
crashing gently into you,
your embrace hot on
every inch of me
and
lying here,
head on your shoulder,
fingers tracing your chest,
matching your heart
beat for aching beat,
I think

I’m really going to miss this someday.

tumbleweeds

letters strewn about like
tumbleweeds across the
bedroom floor. words I forgot
to say scooped up and hidden;
sealed in your back pocket.
my anxiety roaring up,
mouth wide and ready
to devour but suddenly
giving out just before
laundry time. wasn’t it
always tricky to coordinate
our timing?

you see the words didn’t
fall away, you only just
saw the ink bleeding
out when it was already
too late to make out
the meaning.

fleeting

Shhh
listen in
for the pin dropping
I’ve been
so long here dwelling,
measuring love in teaspoons,
guzzling empty glasses,
savouring flavours barely
lingering on my tongue.

The thorns are waning,
but I can still feel the bruises
swelling in my chest
your lies like litter 
in
my pulse, rushing through
me like a greyhound on
the track and
I’m always
meaning
to ask,
is this life?

or just the taste of your fleeting heartbeat?