I made a map of my heart
with hopes to help me find just where my it beats in my chest.
To find just what is flowing through my veins.
To find just what is flowing through my veins.
I printed many tender, simple things on my heart that day.
Like,
Like,
my family, Disneyland, fall time, fireflies, airplanes, or "The Newsies"
But something happened that I didn't expect.
But something happened that I didn't expect.
Poetry was not among them.
When people ask me what I want to be when I get older,
I've always told them a writer.
I long for that to be a passion,
I long for that to be a passion,
but I don't love writing.
I'm not one who waits and waits all day to get out a piece of paper and spill her guts on it. I'm not one who writes to feel alive.
Besides, Poetry left me a long time ago.
I'm not one who waits and waits all day to get out a piece of paper and spill her guts on it. I'm not one who writes to feel alive.
Besides, Poetry left me a long time ago.
Maybe I'm a tourist, but I couldn't lie to my heart.
I am very interested in Poetry and I believe it has the
exhilarating potential to help me stay alive.
exhilarating potential to help me stay alive.
But not enough to make it a piece of me...yet.
Is it weird that I want to be a writer someday
but am still teaching myself how to love it?
writing is so hard.
It has the capacity to make you lose sleep at night.
Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach.
It is an idea that constantly hovers over you,
showing you potential poetry in anything
from an empty room to a rusted nail.
It takes up all of your thoughts and paper.
In fact, writing thrives and feasts on your paper, brain...and heart.
Like a hungry, nagging child that is so hard to please.
If you really think about it, to most that would be a blessing,
but to me its a curse because of my inability to embrace it for what it is.
I attempt to pour my heart into everything I write, but it comes out looking like my brain. Making me feel as though my ideas and words are brilliant, but after I get them on paper it smells like wasted potential.
Writing deceives my heart sometimes. And it hurts.
But.
That doesn't stop me from striving to love it. To call Poetry to come back.
From yearning to be anxiously engaged in spilling my guts on the page.
I may not love writing enough to print it on my heart,
but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
and do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more.
Anxiously waiting, teaching
my blood to pulse a little faster through out me,
Yearning
For the day when I can print Poetry on my
heart.
Is it weird that I want to be a writer someday
but am still teaching myself how to love it?
writing is so hard.
It has the capacity to make you lose sleep at night.
Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach.
It is an idea that constantly hovers over you,
showing you potential poetry in anything
from an empty room to a rusted nail.
It takes up all of your thoughts and paper.
In fact, writing thrives and feasts on your paper, brain...and heart.
Like a hungry, nagging child that is so hard to please.
If you really think about it, to most that would be a blessing,
but to me its a curse because of my inability to embrace it for what it is.
I attempt to pour my heart into everything I write, but it comes out looking like my brain. Making me feel as though my ideas and words are brilliant, but after I get them on paper it smells like wasted potential.
Writing deceives my heart sometimes. And it hurts.
But.
That doesn't stop me from striving to love it. To call Poetry to come back.
From yearning to be anxiously engaged in spilling my guts on the page.
I may not love writing enough to print it on my heart,
but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
and do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more.
Anxiously waiting, teaching
my blood to pulse a little faster through out me,
Yearning
For the day when I can print Poetry on my
heart.
Mmmmmmm.
ReplyDeleteTry replacing 'write' with 'love', and this makes a lot of sense.
You're doing it. This is great and honest and real.
ReplyDelete"writing is so hard." #stolen
You should read "So You Want To Be a Writer" by Charles Bukowski:
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/so-you-want-be-writer
This is honest and true and good
ReplyDeletePlus that ending is beautiful
"Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach."
ReplyDeleteI would steal this line over, and over if you kept writing it.
this is so good and so real. and you're not a tourist for being real with yourself.
ReplyDelete"but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
ReplyDeleteand do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more."
Love that line.
This is so good. We love writing, but it sucks so bad.
Oh my I loved the opening line, the closing line, and everything in between! A++++++ from buggy. I've read this post quite a few times now and it's one of my new favorites. Ps. #stolen
ReplyDelete