You need to login in order to like this post: click here

By Eddie Nova Poetry

What happens when poetry becomes more than something you write? In Poetry Binds Me, Eddie Nova Poetry reflects on writing as companionship, escape, self-expression and survival. From mistakes and self-doubt to addiction, family life and the memory of writing his first poem at sixteen, he presents poetry as the thread holding together the broken pieces of himself.

My neighbours once asked me
a straightforward question:

“E, what makes you who you are?”

I told them:

Poetry binds me.
Poetry connects me.

Poetry helps me win battles
that are not easy to win.

Poetry makes me see the world
differently from those American astronauts.

Poetry presses my two hearts
when I make blunders
in my physics paper.

I have my own pains and problems,
and poetry allows me
to express them in endless ways.

As a matter of fact,
I am a flawed man.

Yet poetry somehow makes me better
on my bad days.

The current me makes mistakes.

I slap myself.
I call myself names.

Then poetry whispers my name.

It cuddles me and says,

“Never quit me.”

I smile.
I snigger.

Then I keep my head up
and stay up like I’m Cench,

like English somehow binds French.

Back at our homestead,
poetry switches into a new girlfriend.

She flirts with me
every time I pull up at the well
to fetch clay.

Even when I pretend not to listen,
poetry calls me
with a soft voice.

When I’m washing spoons and forks.

When I’m breaking
those damn spaghetti strands.

When I’m eating food
cooked by my own queen.

So maybe
I won’t leave poetry.

Instead, I call for my poetry book
and start printing
my bars and lines.

My mood grows wings
whenever I realise
I am still the current version of myself.

I haven’t changed yet.

I still find my body
doing those nasty things.

I thought evolution was easy.

It isn’t.

How I hate beds!

How I have drained myself!

Sometimes, I think my siblings
are exhausted from seeing me
remain stagnant year after year.

Maybe that’s life
when you have no one
to lift your hands
and show you the pathways.

Sometimes, I question God:

“Why me?”

And yet, here I am,
giving you my words.

Poetry binds me.

I first wrote a poem
when I was sixteen.

No metaphors.
No irony.
Not even personification.

Just disgusting words.

And I still have
those unpolished lines
packed in my bags.

How does it feel
when I rap to the walls
and they show no reaction?

Not even a round of applause.
No screams.

Just walls
re-echoing my voice
as though I asked them to.

Then I become paranoid,
battling my addictions
inside my brain.

And my ex looks at me
like I’m a star in vain.

I tell you—

poetry binds me.

Poetry still connects
these broken pieces
at the bottom of my heart.

— Eddie Nova Poetry

You need to login in order to like this post: click here