what writer doesn’t crave time alone,
to write, float, feel free to create
in a world of imagined forms
yet ‘on your own’ brings up all kinds of stuff:
the thought, the feel, the sense of nothing,
the loneliness of being alone
I thought I’d welcome the time on page
that can stretch so far and deep –
yet now it’s self-pressure to perform
in my restricted bowl, with views of nought,
I have to reframe the reminder ticks
as a chance to live, to write, and transform
To my younger self I gift
a sense of knowing I have a right to exist,
imperfect and scared as I am
it’s alright to be me.
To my younger self I gift
a trust that life gives as well as takes,
that the blows and hurts won’t destroy me,
but will make me who I am.
To my younger self I gift
a self-belief that’s humble as it’s confident,
that the words I eventually write
will soothe me and touch others.
To my younger self I gift
a pen that scribes my truth.
Second-guessing makes me lose my own mind.
Yet I spend my life seeking approval from outside.
Pleasing others is a fault in my design.
I’ve begun projects then ended up frozen,
unable to complete an abandoned idea.
Second-guessing makes me lose my own mind.
Reading minds is a skill I think I’ve mastered
but it leaves my creative output empty.
Pleasing others is a fault in my design.
I’d love to roam free in the land of imagination
freeing my thoughts to dance on the page.
But second-guessing makes me lose my own mind.
I can’t take the critic, it pierces and bleeds
my fragile self to the point I submit.
Pleasing others is a fault in my design.
I’ve spent my life waiting for the outside judge
to give a thumbs-up to my latest fudge.
Second guessing makes me lose my own mind.
Pleasing others is a fault in my design.
NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 5: write a poem in the form of a villanelle
On a good day I see in the flames
a dancing horse, swishing tail
head upright, ears aloft,
prancing to the heat of the fire,
soul alight with joy.
On a bad day I see in the flames
a devilish anger that burns down
all my hard work, a ghoulish glee
that turns my dreams to ash,
hope depleted, plans destroyed.
And so the month of memory
begins to tickle my heart.
A month to delve deep
and recover my soul;
for my barest branch
to grow plump-pink blossoms.
(pic copyright: Clairev)
Shade
The only metaphor that works, right now,
is a plant in a corner of the garden
that’s always known its inner-most colour,
kept secret, to adapt and fit in.
This plant isn’t stretching to reach the sun.
It’s been content with its lot on the lawn,
accepting that others will burst and bloom
while it keeps to itself, forlorn.
Imagine this plant could transplant its space
to a patch that was easily lit,
giving a chance to grow like the rest.
But it flinches, retreats as though hit.
Why would a plant not take a chance to grow?
‘Cos it’s forgotten it really can?
Or has its true nature been buried beneath
those decades of soul-sucking soil?
Sun
What if the gardener was calling time
on the plants that had real worthwhile?
What if there was a ruthless deadline,
on the blooms with a chance of life?
What would our shady plant have to say
about the finite – the limit of time?
Would it continue to rot in the safety of shade,
or risk the scrutiny of sun?
Given a push, it will feel the sense
to die, to shift, or move out.
What’s no longer left is the chance to risk
the outcome of years of self-doubt.
So, time to make a shift towards
a sun that could no longer steal.
Trust the gardener of this gorgeous space
where the thorns could ultimately heal?
you mess me about, afraid to commit,
and I let you get away with it.
I’m scared that if I pin you down
you’ll punish me by flying away.
So do I let you flit among my flowers,
skim the best of my summer blooms,
while deep in my roots I feel unrest
as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?
Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on
that won’t always bend to your whim,
and risk losing your custom for good –
though at least I won’t be short-changed?
I shrug and say it’s normal:
what’s so special about what I write?
I also kind of feel a fraud
‘cos it comes so naturally to me.
I just sit at the laptop and type,
without having to re-read back.
I know that what’s come out
is final, total, complete.
So, when people add me to writerly feeds
I wonder what they see in my words.
It’s as natural to me as breathing and dressing.
So where’s the speciality in that?
The agony of my indecision
had done my head right in.
The hurting of my inner child
had left my true self wilting.
The logic part had made up its mind.
The fragility, it was a fraying:
teetering in, about to give way
a lifetime battle drilling.
So, where could the courage come from,
to say a crucial ‘no’ some time?
Perhaps it stemmed from dark-down stuff
that finally said ‘enough’.
Reasons
Walk in, chat, feel welcomed and held.
I’m rated by bosses, part of the meld.
Means a lot to belong, when everything else
could be me, alone, days become dense.
Urges
It’s regular work, though boring old admin
that takes me away from what I’ve been yearning.
Bored. Hate it. Feel something else is calling.
I can teach, write, blog, and be free.
Reasons
Fear of unknown is what keeps me here
and a deep-down blankie of safety.
If I leave, what’ll become of my time:
squandered, wasted, wishing-well drowned?
Urges
I can meet new people, be open to new things
Be alert and fit, not a slave to alarm rings.
Reasons
Can’t trust myself to follow my dream.
End up bereft, broke, regretting my tears.
Urges
Run out of urges. Can’t remember the pull
to be free of misery, detached from the dull.
Reasons
Perhaps there’s a part of me that isn’t done yet.
Maybe a lesson to learn, an unspun pirouette?
inktuition 