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Click hereIt took me many, many years to start writing again and the journey back was difficult, it still is; the biggest hindrance was self-doubt, it still is.
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What did I think when I picked up the pen?
Would writing, again, be the confession
Sought for a life full of magnificent
Anonymity? Where comfort lay in
Solitary discussions – with myself?
The shadow that lives up in my attic
Sent alarming messages of caution
And the expected conviction that I,
Would once again, bare my heart and my soul
Only to have them toyed with – then returned.
I had little else accumulated,
That I accepted the pain and the shame
As more than suitable compensation.
Some years pass, and my dreams die – quietly.
Each year marked and remembered only by
What I have left undone – and forgotten.
The attic is quiet, the shadow kind
To me and what I had not accomplished,
Reminding me, only infrequently,
That I am better off with un-success
And all my accumulated failures.
I am diminished to complacency
And the sublime belief that cowardice
Is the safest and – fastest – avenue
To heaven and all of its promises.
I believe the lies and bury my head,
The shadow is victorious once again.
When a certain milestone was upon me,
I forced myself to accept the invite
And spent the evening my back to the wall.
The gathering continued around me,
But I was a spectator, not a guest.
The final blow to my humbled spirit
Was a casual remark, innocent
And unintentional, I am sure, but
Deeply wounding: “Didn’t you used to write?”
I looked back on a life lived in safety
Bound mostly by fears of my own making.
I had listened to my attic tenant
Far too many times and, with great resolve,
Bought a notebook and a pen with blue ink,
I would write again! And this wallflower
Would not only blossom – but show its thorns!
There was nothing I could not do, nowhere
I could not arrive at and certainly,
No emotion I would not feel, define
Dissect and explain away – in writing.
I laid out a pristine sheet of white,
I held my pen, caressed its straight edges -
And that was all I could do – for two weeks.
Finally, on the third week, my blue pen
Starts to cry; hesitant words, meek phrases
That are more outpourings of regret than
Literature; but at least I have begun.
As the phrases grew, taking shape and form
I heard the caution in the shadow’s voice:
“Are you sure this is what you really want?
This way, there is only uncertainty,
No one will even read the words you write.”
If I am read, it would be a blessing,
But to not write down the words in my head
Would be both a failure and denial.
“Why choose to write?” he asked one last time.
It was not my choice to write….it chose me.
Everyone's journey to writing and sharing it with the world is different, and I loved reading your poetic way of describing your journey.
Beautiful, brave and resonant.
I only came across your page after reading your comment on ElorraButler's poem and I look forward to delving into your poems and stories.
I write titillating stories with what I hope are interesting characters, but I want to write about so much more. After reading this poem a few times I feel inspired and encouraged to do so, thank you.
The fear and bravery behind starting a new is absolutely paralyzing. I never wrote because I thought I wasn't smart enough to write. I kept it all inside. I am so glad you opened up and decided to share.
I also want to THANK YOU! You are always so encouraging and gracious towards my work and others. You also bring us into your world with your unique perspective and gentle ways. Really well done, biggest of hugs!
Beautiful and thoughtful writing from your heart ... and your mind. Well done.
You are a powerful priestess
Your words, blessed tools
Exorcise the Shadow Demon
And its minions, Doubt and Fear
Your writing is sacred work
Your text my scripture!
I'm so glad you listened to the voice in your inner living room and opened doors and windows to allow us bypassers a glance at the wonderful interior.
Just wanted to say 'Thank you so much' for all your writing, comments and shared ideas.
Looking forward to the next time the pen bridges the distance between paper and mind and heart.
Thanks for sharing this very personal story.