To write is a beautiful burden.
It is as equally pleasurable as painful.
It scratches at your soul,
And torments your thoughts.
It is a baby that is clawing to get out of the womb
and experience the world.
To keep a story to oneself causes a mental state of distress.
Pain only a writer understands and can sympathize.
It keeps you up at night
Until you can purge your thoughts,
every last one of them.
Your thoughts must be wrung out
like a towel, until every lost drop is in the bucket.
But to write is a beautiful experience.
One that teaches life and love.
A writer, with a finished work,
Is a proud parent holding her child’s hand at the bus stop
of the first day of Kindergarten.
You watch as the bus turns around the corner,
as your child tries to wriggle free.
You close your eyes, as tears fall,
Releasing the child you watched grow up, you smile.
It is now up to the child to succeed.
A Cloak of Death
Lightly place me in a box,
Lie me down next to the rocks.
Set me down as the flowers wilt.
I hear the sounds of shoveling silt
Above me, getting heavier with each tear shed.
It was a nice life that I once led.
Or would I rather be made ashes
As I burn
Placed in a yearn.
A fire embraces my crackling soul,
As the cloak of death takes a toll.
Throw me here, scatter me there,
Keep me in a locket, if you dare.
This Earth is no longer home for me,
It is only a place for the alive to be.
But one day you’ll follow to where I am going,
But as for right now, you must keep rowing
Down the winding river of life.
It is indeed a sharp knife,
But, oh, what a joyous ride.
I’ll tell you more on the other side.
Oh, how your glassy eyes
Fool the soul.
For how many times will
You carelessly change.
I watch the world flash by,
To fast to understand.
Captivated yet distressed
At what I’ve seen.
The chains of my past
Tighten with each breathe.
The feeling of no escape
Chokes my dreams to death.
The fire burns deep inside my heart,
Signifying no escape.
Life’s lessons beat down
The girl I used to be.
The light dies out,
Too weak to withstand the truth.
The open sky pours down despair,
And darkness wins.
This comment has been removed by the author.ReplyDelete
Your moving vitality in labyrinth of rhythmic phrasesReplyDelete
and in the chosen rhyme schemes of language give us the reality to an eternity of images open to vision.Congrats,kate M. Lynch
Thank you so much for your kind words, I really appreciate it!Delete