Writing poetry, which is what I enjoy doing, means, among a lot of other stuff, putting yourself in some place that may or may not exist, experiencing some events and situations which you made up, and then trying to say it in some way that somebody, who doesn't think a bit like you can understand... somehow.
Sometimes you write it down. Sometimes you say it... out loud, to yourself, to a wall, a dog, or simply trees, birds, ponds, whatever, which may be around you... or which you may be imaging.
I write things down and read back over them, write them again, and then... Hell, I don't know... lots of different stuff. I say things, and then repeat them, changing them as I go, or, if it rings true, or, I simply cannot figure out another way to say it, or another thing to say... leaving it to ferment or fester... until it becomes something which I can do something with... in ten minutes, tomorrow, or a few years from now.
People encountering me at odd moments would assume me to be afflicted with the necessity to write and say things that make no sense...
They may be right, or, I may just be trying out my poet disguise. I sometimes I feel as if I work on the premise that if I act strange enough, and write enough, enough of it will seem other worldly and ethereal enough that others will start calling me "poet", and then I can quit saying it myself... to myself.
Donovan Baldwin