“Writing Raw” she calls it. Throwing the uncooked meat of my thought on to the pire of her pages. Unfettered and unedited, the profuse loquaciousness of my perfidious pen.
Do not second guess, no spell checker or re-read to smooth the sharp edges of my wit…. What to say? Such harsh realities are bound to cut the tender flesh of a beautiful mind, like gripping a rose in an uncalloused palm. The thorns of my metaphor will push past the tender walls of flesh to find the inner pathways of blood and nerve endings.
Let the mind wander.
Gathering freckles of stardust in the cosmic sun rays, getting a thoughtful tan.
A forest of notebooks growing around me, their scarlet words like leaves drifting down to whisper at my feet when I walk. Memories brief and euphoric, like a hummingbird flitting through the boughs, elusive and achingly beautiful.
Sadness dripping like a late Autumn rain, nourishing the soil of my soul, seeds are put to sleep for the winter.
The accumulated torrent of my emotion seeks the ocean as a river does. Claiming solitude in the rhythm of the break, each breath in sync with tides of change.
Now slipping on the blue descending lines of a wrinkled page, meaning drops off the cliff and scurries into incoherent scribbles in the margins. The place where poems go to die, like a salmon, where it all began. Juggling oxymorons with a sleight worry that I spelled something wrong.
Do not look back. If you look back you are doomed. Whatever you do, just keep writing, walking, one line after the other.
If I could paint you just the right picture with this bleeding pen of mine, would you bother to read them? If the answer to everything was illustrated so concisely it was beyond reproof would you even know it if you saw it? How can I know what the words are if I am writing them in the wrong language? Where have all those meanings deteriorated and fed the seeds of epiphany? What sort of wonders have borne fruit since being fertilized by the death of yesterday, and where can I find such a garden of delight?
See here I am again, talking to myself via black ink rumination, grappling with obscurity like wrestling an alligator… I think I’m winning.
Prompt From Rebecca Tsaros Dickson: “Funny how you can live your whole life believing a lie…”
Words like sticks and stones, never broke my bones.
Rose above it all, like an eagle does, wings spread over that vast expanse of your air, just soaring.
Yes my soul was lifted up by the weight meant to bring me down, and every attempt to strip from me the layers of self only exposed the iron core beneath.
Pain was the steel that honed the blade of my pen, until my words cut through platitudes smoothly.
No I never spent my life believing your lies, but it was quite ironic that they were able to hold me down anyhow- At least for a while.
Funny how you can go through life at the mercy of another, who was too small to hold even a fraction of your big and heavy heart. How the weight of your eyes alone would make them buckle at the knee, yet you hid your gaze like it was your secret.
Funny how once the tiger cub has grown, she no longer fears the approach of the wild boar.
The hunter has become the hunted.