Your eyes carry a depth
my words could never hope to paint
in this lifetime.
I wrote that nearly two years ago. It’s been a long time since I’ve written like that.
I want to feel again. I want poetry again.
Sometimes I wonder why I so willingly bare my soul for complete strangers to read. Why do I pour my tears out in writing? Why do I share my fears and secrets? Albeit not all, or even most, of it. But even so, I bare.
I have never been one to shy away from telling my story. I have never been ashamed of the storms that rage war underneath this pale skin.
Perhaps it is because, more often than not, I feel misunderstood, and so a part of me desperately writes – in the hope that somebody will read, and understand me.
After all, all I have ever longed for was to be listened to. To be understood.
I cannot even begin to explain to you the salvation that I find in writing. In taking all these aches within me and turning them into something beautiful. I spend most of my nights furiously writing, trying to capture every ounce and iota of thought and emotion. Sometimes beautiful poetry comes out of it. Other times, only a jumbled up rambling mess. It makes no difference to me anyhow.
I just don’t want any of it to have been in vain.
“When we share our stories, what it does is, it opens up our hearts for other people to share their stories. And it gives us the sense that we are not alone on this journey.” – Janine Shepherd
Hey you. Whatever your struggle is, you aren’t alone. I am here too. Breathing in the same grace. Clutching at the same hands. Isn’t it funny? How frail we are. But together, we will overcome.
Bursts of creativity hit me at the most inopportune of moments. I can go for hours sitting at my computer feeling absolutely mind-numb, unable to come up with even a single word. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere – there comes a rushing tide of emotion, thought and poetry.
How strange it is that things always come to me when I least expect it. It’s been that way for most good things in my life. I guess it is no different with my writing.
Tonight I lie awake with words bursting through my veins and poetry tumbling out of me.
I wonder where it all comes from. And I wonder why it comes to me.
Who will read?