Today I’m tired and any words escape me.
I try to write but there is a dryness to it,
a sense that what I write is far from how I feel.
At times it all feels overwhelming,
I’m in a vortex of thoughts that won’t be tamed.
I envy those who write with such ease,
their words seemingly spill out onto the screen,
every word, precise, meaningful, deep.
I feel more like Charlie Brown staring at clouds,
all I see are the simple shapes and patterns,
none of the nuances of those shapes,
adding color and flavor to the words.
I read other poems, filled with images,
I’m transported by their words into new realms,
I feel the cold, the heat, the passion and love,
I sense the longing, the losing, the joy, the death.
That is the writers task, evoking feelings,
opening up closed hearts and minds,
examining the human experience that we share.
Today, however, I’m tired,
the rhetoric feels like a heavy chain.
It drags my heart and soul into the depths.
Anger fills the pages with its toxicity,
diminishing the hopes and dreams,
of so many. The writer within me laments,
my own soul seeks refuge, my heart breaks.
The writer within also knows of hope,
hope, not broken by the darkness, or diminished.
A hope born out of the light of grace,
the love of one whose darkest day turned,
the world upside down and broke down barriers.
So, on this day of deep tiredness, when all seems,
bleak, I continue to write, poor poetry and prose.