(Written on June 25th, 2003)
It’s just this thing I do
With no effort at all
The words come so naturally
From my mind through my fingers they fall
I consider it an art
And hold my brush and paint
Then I step back and look
So beautiful and breathless, I faint
Every stroke is an emotion
Every color a feeling
From blazing fire and rage
To rain, flowers and healing
Writing, my life!
Lately, I haven’t been able to journal. I just can’t. It’s as if the ability to just freely write has been taken away from me. My journal just sits there, collecting dust. But I can’t write. My thoughts don’t feel safe.
I have been writing here though. And oddly enough – it’s coming out in the form of poetry. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve written poetry since high school. I had a scary experience that left me all kinds of traumatized and so I wrote poetry about it. It’s how I coped. I suppose it makes a little bit of sense that I’ve been bitten by the poetry bug again. I’m going through a rather distressing phase and apparently that’s my poetry trigger. Who knew. *shrugs*
So apologies in advance for corny rhymes, awful phrasing and the jumbled mess that is my poetry.
Why do they call it writer’s block? They should call it writer’s constipation. At least people can relate to constipation. I mean – we’ve all been there. It’s like my brain hurts because there is so much inside and I’m bloated with things I want to write but can’t seem to finish. I try and try…and nothing. Just numb legs and a ring on my ass. Ugh…
So I leave you with these while I work through my situation…
the bluntest blog 