>I’ve been digging through my old journals looking for some material for my research proposal. While some of the poetry I found there, left me wondering how the paper it was written on didn’t curl up in embarrassment for having to shelter such drivel, this poem I quite like,

Traitorous Tears

With only my own
arms expending
to encompass me,
I curl up,
cornered,
into recoiling cold,
dwarfed by dirty-pink detachment
A pink towel
muffles
my draining gasps
my insurmountable fear
my infinitesimal voice.

‘A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out expression; an effort to find fulfilment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.’ Robert Frost

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