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
no more clinging on to the person I was –
in a clothed, hidden, impersonal place,
out of step and out of touch,
yet blessed within ignorant bliss –
I’ve shed the very skin I was in.
becoming conscious is a contract
you sign with your knowing side,
but if you knew what lay in advance,
you’d rip it up, run away and hide.
having pledged my soul this journey
to become more present, more true
I know there’s no return to shore
just the endless ocean to endure.
how I’d love to bring back my false self,
let her dance and laugh with such ease
to shine against the surface of life
and see reflected the mask she believed.
hollow it was, but what’s left in its place
is a sense of being completely alone,
robbed of charm, of all defence,
my ragged heart is, reluctantly, free to roam.
Alone,
I review
what I’ve done.
Alienated,
I question
what I’ve said.
Abused,
I wonder
what I deserved.
Bereaved,
I imagine
being alive again.
Happy?
I’ve forgotten
what it’s like.
A poem for day 27 of NaPoWriMo 2015: hay(na)ku
I catch myself,
many a time,
living rules of others
that no longer apply.
Still their critical words
will fill my head.
Even though they’re
gone. Passed. Dead.
Their invisible binds
taper me to a past
that served me ill.
When will my ice defrost?
inktuition 