Water it down
And distort it
Until there’s nothing
Left of the original
Wake me up
Let me walk
Away from it
In no possession
Of the memory of
Pain . . .
The First Draft . . .
That’s the thing that I hope for every time that I share the words with the world.
I hope that they’ll read what I’ve written and tell me about the story and the flow and the idea.
It’s one thing to wish for this and to hope for it, quite another to experience it.
“It was a great Story – a great idea – but it was badly Written.”
That’s just – it’s just –
Let’s just say, I felt like a pregnant Mama Bear defending her unborn baby.
It was my idea and it was my Story so who the hell was she to tell me that I told it poorly?!
Who was she to tell me that my characters thought too much and said not enough?
That’s just how my damn lead character was!
But I realized that it wouldn’t have mattered what I did or didn’t say. I may have written the story for myself, but I released it for the Reader. Her opinion was what I wanted.
I wanted her eyes and her Life experiences in the world and her mind and her perspective.
I wanted her to see it all from my eyes, but through her own vision.
And yet, it hurt to hear her say that.
Did I have it in me?
To approach this story from another angle?
Would I be able to progress the story without delving too deep into the minds of my characters?
Would I be able to look at my little darlings and tell them that they weren’t good enough, rip them apart and rebuild them?
Wasn’t that what Art was all about?
Picking up the tool and trying to create a masterpiece and chipping away at it all until perfection was achieved?
Wasn’t Art not just raising it all from nothing, but growing from it too?
What was Art if it didn’t move even a single soul?
So I stretched out over several seats, even with my grumbling and calmed myself down.
Maybe, a little bit, I doubted myself.
And maybe, a little bit, I saw where she was coming from.
And I was thankful.
Most people barely have time to sit down and listen to a pitch for an idea, yet along read a first draft.
Back to the drawing board.
Time to grow.
O B S C U R I T Y
I could fade into it good and easy
If it meant that I could keep my Heart
Buried inside of me
Where no man could ever find it
All for the hope of keeping myself
From all the aching
And the breaking
That was no doubt birthed with me
When I was Created by the great Divine
When He breathed His Life
Into this shell of mine
Knowing the dirt of human nature
Our cruelty and vice
And the thoughts that we battle with
Inside our Minds –
I would blend into my darkness
And keep hidden my shine
If it meant drawing close
These demons of mine –
Only to vanquish them
In the strength of my light –
I would take these scars
Off their blades and claws
Bleed from their violence
And heal from the trauma –
I would rise a Warrior
Ever stronger . . !
Dear Writer. Reader . Poet . Artist
For years, I wrote for the purpose of school.
And then, I wrote for the joy of writing.
And then I collected it all for the viewing of others.
And before long, that was what I became known for.
What I learnt over the years, was that not everybody is a Reader.
And of those that Read, some prefer hardcopy over digital.
Some people just don’t like long Stories – they hate detail.
Others demand to know if the air itself was as crisp as the clear blue sky.
And they all know this because they found a random book on a random shelf and it told them something about themselves.
In a world where there’s just too much happening and not enough time to get it all done and Life just keeps throwing curveballs at everyone, who would even have the time to Read anything simply for the pleasure of Reading?
This was the driving force behind almost everything that I wrote or didn’t Write.
But then I realized that if I chose not to Write, simply because there was nobody in my Life to Read, then I would be doing a disservice to the Readers out there waiting for a story like mine.
I am more of a Poet than I am a Novelist.
But the best ones started somewhere – and they did not quit.
So, for every Writer and Poet and Artist out there – whatever your motivations are – keep sharing your Story.
For your release.
For something to do.
For that drive and compulsion inside of you.
Tell your Story.
I just want to tell my stories.
Whether or not there’s anyone around to listen –
It doesn’t silence the flow in my mind.
It doesn’t stop the Words from demanding release.
I don’t know for which purpose I was designed.
Maybe for the use of my voice and
Not for the spill of ink on pages, white.
All I know is that I’m a vessel for stories
That I hold deep inside.
And when God calls for judgment of me
I want to stand before Him knowing
That I used His Words right . . .
I didn’t ever want it to come to this.
Constantly checking my phone to see if
Maybe you’d called and I’d missed it.
To see if you’d left a text for me and I didn’t hear it.
Or maybe you were waiting for me to log on
Because you thought I was sleeping.
Or maybe you were sleeping and
Were just now thinking of me.
I never wanted to sit there and think up
Schemes to get you near me.
Or say the wildest things
To make you hear me.
Or have you grasped fully by my madness
By pretending to be crazy.
Just so you could be compelled
To tell your friends about me.
I never wanted that… But here I am now – begging at your feet.
Wishing that you could grant me
Attention in your waking dreams.
Praying that I cross your mind
Every time that you sleep.
So that when you rise, your thoughts linger on me.
I never wanted such – such –
Ardent feelings to fall upon me.
This being that I cannot even see.
So I will fall back and be strong in my retreat.
I will try not to fall apart when you forget about me.
I will try to remember that I was always able to live.
And to love.
And to breathe.
Even before you met me…
When people ask how I am, I say that I’m good.
I say that I’m fine.
And maybe I am.
I literally have no life.
And as a result, there’s nothing to report when it comes to my existence.
Nothing but the internal struggle I face everyday.
With my demons and the choices that I make.
Should I fight them down or should I lay down and
Give them a place on which to play?
That won’t help, is what they say.
But it eases the pressure a little bit.
It helps me me grow in strength for it.
It helps me carry my own load instead of becoming a burden for it.
Because sometimes, when I call out
There’s nobody to hear me.
And when that happens –
My load –
I’m strong enough to bear it.
What joy it is
When at the end of the day
You enter your own space
Peel back the layers
Let the mask fall from your face
And take a deep breath in –
And slowly exhale
Knowing that you can take your time
Before you have to breathe in again
There’s not a damn thing rushed
It’s just you –
You’re the one
And in that moment
You’re all alone –
Before the coldness seeps into your skin
And then gradually
And with it all
Comes the realization
On how you’re truly lonely