Unaisah Saeed

On Writing Poetry

These words are made in my hands, but they slip from my hands. They form slippery sentences that coil into serpents in my arms. Scream and pain work their way into my mouth—in my fingers—in my nails. Books and papers on poetry lie strewn across my bedroom floor. Millions of writers run ahead of me in an endless marathon. My feet are tired, and so I inevitably fall. The words I have been carrying fall free for you all to see. “Write, write, write!” I say to my tired hands, knowing that is the only way to continue writing poetry.