By: Naa Doodua Doodu (Anthonia, The Little Observer)
I live in a literature reverie.
Not quite here,
not quite gone—
just somewhere between
a prayer and a poem.
I observe everything.
I say little.
I watch how people laugh too loud.
How they leave without a goodbye,
how pain pretends to be fine.
I take it all home with me.
Not in my hands, in my chest.
And at night,
When the world is asleep,
I turn it into words.
That’s my reverie.
A quiet room where paper listens,
where ink does not judge,
where a wounded animal can write
and still be called a poet.
I do not write because I want to be read.
I write because if I don’t,
The feelings will have nowhere to go.
This is my reverie.
My hiding place.
My rosary.
My truth.
