I promised myself I would write a post today, for it has been far too long since I've shown you more than photographs and quotes. I'm putting my heart and soul into writing at the moment, yet this strangely doesn't seem to have transferred to my blog. Bare with me, give me time. So here I am. Showing up. A little ill at ease, not quite knowing where to begin, as is often the case after time away from a space. I'm not in a particularly cheerful state of mind either, but my intentions for this blog is for it to be an honest space, an opportunity to share the good times and the bad like you would do with a good friend. And so I choose to share a poem I wrote yesterday evening, when the dreaded stuckedness threatened to take over. I didn't think anything productive could come of my frowns and sighs, however the poem that emerged is a part of me. It may not be beautiful or well crafted but it feels raw and real.
Sounds of not writing
With haphazard rhythms.
Why does it always rain on me? (I hum)
A vibrating fridge
Is she still there
That little girl from the story book
Holding the inside light?
A creaking desk
How can not yet written words intimidate
An invisible elephant in the room
Sucking oxygen with deafening silence.
who put her in a restricted space?
Jumbled strings of graphemes
Crash and twirl
Without pause it seems.
Can anyone else hear how loud it is?