Writing about writing is an excuse. A word abuse. As she all knows, a poem can’t be pushed, or blamed, tamed from shame. It just won’t show. Thoughts roam to whether prose or verse is more discrete, the seat of ink. Think, she never speaks in dreams. Every word is in feeling. Pushes and pulls in directions given from something’s and someone’s senses. Wind follow, eyes smile, silence reach, speech see. Down deep and flying meanings, maybe. Her interpretations seem misleading, like mixing forms into one typed emotion. But, never quite hiding.
Writing about shouting in full voice. The choice of vulnerable isn’t the synonym. If she listens, whispers fear. Of what would be the title. While whether prose or verse is louder, neither is too quiet to say.