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June 22, 2005
I used to write poetry
I used to write a lot of poetry (I wrote my first poems at age 11). Like, I'd sit down and pick up a pen and paper and words would just flow out of my body. I'm not saying all the words were good or made sense, but they were there, somewhere, in my mind. Now, when I look at the blank page, that's all I see, a blank page. I have nothing to say; no thoughts of my own, no feelings, nothing to express.
The last few poems I wrote were all about how I couldn't write anymore. Here is the very last one:
ever since i gave myself away
my stream of words
which would never end
has trickled away to nearly nothing
and it's sad to me
i have nothing to say
how could it be
that i have nothing to say
I think that was written some time in 2003, but I didn't date it so I'm not really sure. I know there was a point in time that I convinced myself that there was a logical reason that I wasn't writing anymore. It was because I was too happy. I knew it wasn't true, even at the time. I knew the reason I stopped writing was because I didn't want to put on paper what was going on in my head. I didn't want to face my own reality. So, how do I get back there? How do I start facing reality again? There has to be a way to start believing in yourself again and a way to realize that your thoughts and feelings are nothing to be ashamed of and you certainly shouldn't hide them from yourself.
My Room
I'd never open the door
even when someone knocked.
I'd never let them in
even if they brought gifts.
The day I decided to look outside
you were only walking by,
for some reason I invited you in.
We sat by the fire and had tea.
It was so enjoyable
I didn't want you to leave.
You stayed for quite some time
until someone called your name.
You ran for the door and gave no explanation.
As you left I locked the door
and shut the blinds
and cried myself to sleep.
Every once in a while you'd stop by
you wouldn't have much to say
and always had somewhere to go.
I'd sit and stare straight through you
trying to see inside and understand why.
After you leave
I sometimes want to nail the door shut
and put boards over my windows
because it hurts so much to see you
and even more when you leave
but I like your visits too much.
If I did that
I'd probably go numb.
I'd rather still have hope
and feel the pain
than never be touched by you again.
So, I put down my hammer
and cry myself to sleep.
November 5, 1996
Posted by meloknee at June 22, 2005 12:31 AM
Comments
I wrote a poem once. It goes:
I yelled, "Duck!"
That duck said, "What?"
And now that duck is dead.
Posted by: jlg at June 22, 2005 12:58 PM
You didn't write that :P
Posted by: melanie at June 22, 2005 01:29 PM
Heh, I used to write poetry a lot too. I am not exactly sure why I stopped. I sometimes attribute it to the fact that when I was younger I had a lot less stimulus from things like the internet, friends, going out and as a result spent more time by myself at home left to my own devices. If I can dig some of mine up I will post it.
Posted by: Ken at June 22, 2005 02:38 PM
You have read me a few of your poems and, while we were generally drunk at impromptu poetry readings, I enjoyed them very much and definitely think you should continue to write. My advice on writing is that its not what you write, its just that you put the pen to paper. The good stuff will follow. Having said that, as a previously avid journal writer, I haven't written anything in a long, long time.
Posted by: shannon at June 22, 2005 09:23 PM
Ich Auch!
Posted by: liz at June 23, 2005 01:50 PM
Yes I did write that. And I have the F to prove it. It was one of many (F's, not poems).
Posted by: jlg at June 28, 2005 03:44 PM