Me, them, my feelings, my thoughts, some stranger feelings and thoughts that visit me. Sometimes they crowd around my head and I feel their presence, then often one or two manage to make their way onto paper through my hand.
Sometimes I write poems about my own stories, or stories about my own poems - these are my favorite: meta-poems, where inspiration overflows the original piece and wants more attention.
I don’t write from another’s perspective. I am a bit bothered by that fact - lack of imagination? - but it’s just not there. Maybe it’s a stage: I’ve been separated from myself for so long that I want to explore my own point of view before imagining someone else’s.
