So busy hurrying along,
Simple pleasures lost and gone.
Forgotten toys,
broken and gone.
Same question all along.
Can we play,
and have some fun?
Can we laugh,
Jump and run?
Whimsy competes
with hope and dream,
Pushing us to all that we can be.
Weary and tired,
as life draws us to the bone
leaving us looking for
Relief and joy.
Due to the having my phone die, I have been using a android emulator to run my apps. So my writing app went from being convenient to being a true pain in the backside. So last night I decided to transfer a few of my Work in progress to the computer as text files to make writing easier. Especially since the Emulator seems to really dislike my notebooks app. It crashes way too often. Well today I was transferring Elizabeth. (I still need to come up with a better name for that one). I checked the word count when i finished pasting it to my office document. It was only 1298. I decided to do a bit more on it. When I set goals for my daily writing, it is usually only 250 words. Well after about an hour of writing, I decided to take a break and do some dishes. So i checked my word count. 2198. I am so happy with that. Yes i realize that is not a huge difference. still it felt like a huge jump to me. So I was telling another writer friend about it.
That conversation led to a discussion about when writing is more difficult. Also about writing poetry and the emotion that goes with. I mentioned that for me winter is easier to write because i am not able to get out and about. And sadness helps the poetry flow. she commented that she had maybe written four poems…ever. I have lost more poems than I have published. I had a book once with around a hundred poems i had written. The chick i was living with at the time stole it, and my son’s baby book. To be honest the poems in the four volumes i have published were only written in the last five years. I have been writing poetry since I was nine years old. Somehow the papers I have written them on have found themselves lost. So even though I have not been published until fairly recent…I have been writing my whole life. I have won some poetry contests, been published in my high school literary magazine, and a few other compilations. I’ve never won any money, and so I never felt like I had met my dreams.
Now i have made money on my writing…( a total of $0.35 lol) I find myself wondering if I really didn’t understand my dreams then. As I have aged, I keep finding that my youthful dreams were ignorant and slightly blind.
This year has been better than last, Emotionally and physically I am in a good place. Still after the hell that was 2015, I find myself in more of a hold than normal. I normally write at least 70 poems in a year and at least a story of some sort. Even if I end up destroying the stories, I do write them. Yet this year has been an inspirational void. I have them…after major life changes. It makes sense if you think about it. How does one appreciate the poetry of life, when the mind is still adjusting to chaos that comes from being truly a hot mess. I still see the poetry, still feel the story. Surrealism clouds a busy mind.
For me March is one I almost always have a distracted mind during. This month is my birthday month. I am not a single bit worried about my age, however that doesn’t mean I don’t contemplate what growing older means. I expected that I would be so much more and yet I am farther than I thought I would be. So many of life’s choices have led me down a path that led me in both dark and light places that i could have never imagined. Today I am forty. I have made choices, both good and bad. In Eleven days, I will be forty and one . It always strikes me as strange. Perhaps that is why March sets me on my ear.
Found on Facebook. All credit to the Buddha Doodles. Original Quote by an amazing Poet – Maya Angelou. ❤
In the heart of the poet,
Each moment in time.
written in verse
both loose and light.
darkness ebbs with the mind,
An overwhelming heart bound tide.
Lyrics touching deep within
singing the song,
of souls adrift
comforting
warping.
setting the mind
free to dream,
free to believe.
Distant memory
of words spoken in rhyme,
Iambic measure, Rhythm and time.
Pushing boundaries
Just to feel alive.
I truly believe that everyone has some font of creativity. Most never see that streak within themselves. For some it comes out in form of fashion, In some it is an eye for color in Decor. Some write, some draw. Every creative act nourishes the soul. So each person needs some way of expressing that. I personally think that those with an uncertainty and self doubt end up expressing more of a creative nature. Which is why much poetry and art has pain and darkness at it’s base. All forms of creative expression are the mind’s way of dealing with extra stress and extra doubt.
Mind you, I am not claiming this is a bad thing. I applaud any way that leads the mind to cope with life. I think that creative expression of pain and doubt lead to much of the beauty in our world. It amazes me how much beauty exists. I am all over the place when it comes to beauty. Enjoying a well written song, a beautiful poem. Smiling over a gorgeous picture, a well done show. Eclectic in my personal decor and jewelry. There are many enjoyments I have in all forms of beauty and creative expression. What is it that you think of creativity? What is your thoughts on Beauty?
After midnight,
Staring out the window.
Softly drifting white,
Covering all within my sights.
Hesitant to enjoy
Such a coldly pretty view,
For fear of embracing
Even something new.
Soft snoring emanating
From yet a few feet away,
Reminding me only
Of tomorrow’s busy day.
Asleep, should i be
Not starting through
A quiet, cold night,
Wondering what i might
Begin to plan and make.
I know I should write,
Should create and
share my light.
I should tell my story
For all the world to hear.
Not today dear.
There is laundry
To wash, dry and fold.
There is blog entries
Left to be told.
Poetry I must
Write so well.
Social activity
To lessen my hell.
Not today dear,
Can’t you tell?
Today was just
A wee bit much,
So though there is
A lot of stuff
Requiring me to do….
Not today dear.
Blending in,
For now everyone
Has the traits
That used to mark me
As unique.
My idiosyncrasies
Are now community,
Nothing new or remarkable
In my mind today.
Was individual,
And even slightly weird,
Now everyone does
What i began.
So now i sit
And slightly sigh.
For looking around,
And dreaming that I
Could return to the time
When I was unique
Just once more.
I spoke the truth
In a tiny voice,
I spoke the truth
To be told i lied.
I hang my head
in utter shame,
For i spoke the truth,
And you turned away.
I shook my hands,
With a frustrated cry,
Trying to just be heard.
I spoke the truth,
I did not lie.
I was brave,
Though inside i feared,
I spoke the truth,
It was denied.
How can i believe
That i will be safe?
For all is how he said,
I spoke the truth,
No one heard.
Grown and wary,
Weak and weary.
Haunted by what
Cannot ever be undone.
I spoke the truth,
When will i be
Believed?
Pattimouse 