I’ve been writing a lot of poetry these past few months, well, let’s just say I think I’ve been writing poetry. I’m definitely not a classic poet, I don’t do all of the rhyming or understanding of what constitutes a decent poem. Yet, I continue to write these poems and once in a while I get a few positive comments and quite a number of likes.
Lately, I’ve begun to reflect on my writing, what it means, what I intend it to mean, basically those great existential questions of self worth and what my life is about. Most of what I write starts as a short verse or just one word. From that one short verse or word, I start to write, usually a stream of consciousness until I exhaust that vein of words. I then look over what has been written, read it out loud to hear what it’s saying and then make edits. Many times I surprise myself at what I’m reading. It’s as if my mind and thoughts are no longer my own as I write down what I’m hearing inside. Another voice, ancient and elusive, seems to be seeking an outlet as I write.
Ever since being struck by that car door, over a year ago, this voice deep within has been ever present with me. I see the world and all that is around me in a different light. I see the flowers and trees, the birds, and the life around me, coming even more alive. There is a vividness all around, an achingly beautiful, yet fearful world, that screams at my heart to write about. I really can never explain these feelings, as I am still seeking to make sense of what I’m hearing and writing about.
So, I will continue on this path, I will write more poems, delve into sacred prose, seek the Spirit that underlies my very life. Some will resonate, some will just purely suck, all of it will be mine.