Today has been me hiding with a migraine. I peeked at social media to be surprised by a blast from the past. A young man who has been like a son to me shared this picture of me and my oldest son. My eldest is currently estranged because someone told him lies about me, and he believed them. So I have been heartbroken about it since thanksgiving… The picture was such a nice thing, even if he is not speaking to me. It reminded me of a time when he trusted me unconditionally.
Ok I really have been trying not to resort to this sort of thing. But I am stumped for what to post. So I am open to your questions. I will answer any questions except for the nasty stuff. Keep out of my pants and I will answer you. (Though the less than specific I may still answer). C’mon hit me with those questions you have.
Writing. Crap. What do I say? Do I sit here and try to explain that, at least for me, writing is something akin to breathing? That there’s never been a time when I didn’t need to put words together? And then I would have to tell you just how it feels to read what I wrote and think that I am not cut out for this. How many people who I know personally who are brilliant at this whole writing gig. Still… I would have to mention that the idea of stopping is actually painful. It has been how I was able to see the answers to life, since before I ever realized that there was a question.
Usually, I try to use the Friday post to give tips, and help with the whole writing and publishing thing. And I think that is great to keep the blog going… But today I was thinking about the reason why I write. Yeah… I could probably claim that I was trying to add beauty. But I don’t generally lie. My art is more how I do beauty. Abstract and pencil drawings to encourage happiness in the eye of the beholder. My children’s books are a way of connecting with my daughter, as they have thus far been stories I told her, or wrote for her. Serena’s stuff is stories that I want to read. But if I am honest with myself… My main writing is my poetry.
My poetry will never be hallmark stuff. My poetry is raw emotion and survival. I have lived a survivors life. My poetry is how I have been able to express myself even when my voice was stolen. I could write my story… Even though I was being told I lied. I could write it and it was accepted because it was poetry. It was written in a way that meant I was non-threatening to those who were part of hurting me. And it was written off as just an angsty teen writing depressing poetry… For don’t we all have that stage?
After I was free, and I was no longer needing verse to speak my truth, well it was still the easiest way to speak my pain. To spread my views. It was habit. I may never be able to sit along with the likes of Poe or Dickenson… But my words will remain. I will be there when another lost soul seeks to know that they are not alone.
Pattimouse 