a writer

in a place
bursting with hate
every safe space
invaded
every happy place
vacated
we are isolated

cold, empty
steel hearts clicking away
in stone-cold chests
ive always liked people best
when they have a little mess
but somewhere down the line
we decided to be perfect
is it all worth it?

i have to ask
why
we rely on ai
to supply a reply
why we cannot find
the feelings it takes
to empathise
why we no longer
press wilting knuckles
into weeping eyes
why we no longer cry

so when i found
a writer
i felt a little lighter
a real person, a real feeling
a real choice to convey meaning
when i read a poem
filled with rage
and stared at the very
fibres of the page
everything came together

i cannot measure
the pleasure
in finding a like-minded brain
when everything is strain
we both kiss our page
until the nib of the pen
is bruised with the pain

and i know
poets have existed
for longer than i can understand
words have been penned
by millions of hands
enheduanna began
and we never stopped

but when
we are so overrun
by heartless
artificial art
it feels so nice
to see some come
from a real, beating heart

i love
how writers
love to write
and i love to write
i will write
for the rest of my life

and how nice
that in a place full of hate
we had such a
lovely exchange
for the second i made home in
someone else’s poem.

03:10am - 28/07/26 - my window.