Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Ripped from my name....

I'm a writer. Writer's block, or any mental/emotional/physical state that stops my ability to express myself through writing, is my worst enemy. I wrote a poem about what its like to connect with the enemy... Ripped From My Name

Who ripped me from my name?
Give it back.
Give it back to me
I can’t see my creator.
My divine light snuffed.
I represent an endless stream empty
All you’ll find here is a fixed broken piece.
Trying to build on this shaky foundation.
Lying in a moving bed,
Away from the journey,
Destroying destination.
Road to writer

How did I end up here?
Fever temperatures, outbreaks.
Twisted health in illness.
My life has ended.
I just watch from down below,
The weight of nothing too much to bear.
Carried away is what I am;
Or maybe that’s what I was.
Without a fight I led us there,
Away from me
To it.

All I see are white sheets and blue lines
Inactive ink runs
Still thumbs intertwine with each other
Playing keep away.
This is a game right?
No quitting.
Brain shut off
Rolled over by the world

Who ripped me from my name?

Give it back.

Give it back to me.

When I find myself unable to write, the fear that I'll never get that feeling back is always the most overwhelming. And then there's always that desperation and subsequent anxiety that accompany my internal pleas for my purpose to come back to me. There's guilt that I have allowed myself to drift astray. And of course there's hurt that can normally only leave me through writing, but remains trapped inside brewing. It gets real.