It’s not the way one writes or the way one feels.
It’s the way a writer takes the reader into a different world.
It’s about making them feel what they’ve never felt,
Or the very least, to make them feel what they think you feel.

Or perhaps, it’s about making them feel what they have already felt?
But that’s not easy, or is it? Perchance it could be. Perchance, it’s as easy
as the time I wrote a poem about fear. I remember that when I wrote it, it was dark.
That day, the power industry left me without electricity.
A storm approached my home. It had already been forecasted
but the obscurity of the night and a candle
provoked my hands to write the poem regardless:

I remembered that as I wrote it,
the poem screamed like a cat being choked with his tail on the neck,
Like if everyone in my neighborhood shivered to the bones
when they heard a meow meow of help turned slowly
into a meowwow, meow wow, wow … wow of chaos.

As if far away lighting transformed my words into a power
that struck a cat on a tree with a magical lasso,
As if its sharp claws began to scratch the trunk of my throat,
As if its teeth began to bite against the tail of my imagination,
As if its bones began to grow inside of me, And as if the cat
suddenly transformed into a dog then into a wolf
with a red full moon imprinted on his eyes.

That’s how my poem screamed.

It screamed like a wolf that howled and howled
at the center of my body, at the entrance of my home: My navel.
It screamed like a dog that made me panicked.
And I panicked as if it was my tree in my front yard.
Like if it was not my cat! But a wolf that howled and howled
during the night. Like if I – my soul, was inside my house
while looking outside the window of my eyes,
outside the door of my mouth. Like if I went
to the back yard of my mind to sneak my way
to the front yard of my heart. As if there were
no Trees on my way, like if I slipped to hide
under bushes, guts; Like if it was raining, blood!

It screamed, And I panicked.

I panicked as if I heard a meowowhowling at me,
like if I hid under bushes,
while the catdogwolf intimidated my front door, my chest!
and as my crunched-like position shook the bushes
where I was hiding – with dread. As if raising my head
meant to find a mandible bite my heart
into a nightmare
where love would turn into a beast; a mutation
that’ll continued to chase me
into bushes that’ll give away my location.

It screamed, And I panicked.

I panicked as the catdogwolf in my poem
devoured me into the reality where my mind no longer
felt the jaws of fear.

It screamed

And I stopped writing.

Written by: Lucero L.


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