Poetry: #53 For the Love of God! Write Writer! (The Search For 1)
And my thoughts after revisiting the words
For the Love of God! Write Writer!
Standing at the bottom of the pool, all I can say is farewell, to the haters and shameful doubters that tormented me every step of the way until I sell. And lo there do I see all their brothers and sisters calling from ages past to seek what I have written. They search through every line for a hint of what makes them mine, the pan of words thickens the longer the liquid inside is stirred. Soon, the soup of sadness will come to an end, and the thoughtful stew of vibrant flavors will take hold… Churning the concoction with deliberate ease, I can see words come through my mind faster than at any other flash in time. While these words are easy to see, they are not articulate. They do not fall in place like they used to, they will not speak to me the same as they used to. It is now up to me to decipher what before was a breeze to understand. Perhaps, I have grown through the phase of writing with ease… Or perhaps I lack the inspiration to seek for the right words in the jumbled sea of vocabulary. No no no… no. That is not right. Scratch the above… Churning the concoction of vibrate colors and words I seek for the ones to describe the feeling of nothingness that lurks within. There is no depth darker than the depressed state of a writer without inspiration. I thrive off emptiness for only so long as the words do not grow stale. These past few years have become a stale pale painful repose from my normal posture. I do not blame others, nor myself for the matter at hand; but rather accept that the failure to be inspired is the result of an astrological coincidence that forces me to hide inside. There is no peace in the turmoil of a writer’s heart when there is no passion, no longing, no trust, no confidence to place. As the sky grows lighter, the writer grows weary. As the writer grows weary, the world wakes up. As the world wakes up, the writer fights fury. As the writer fights fury, the world erupts. And here I sit, removed from my seat My chair of promise and comfort has grown cold with dead dry leaves. The day walkers going to work, while I sit and write my thoughts… Hopeful for inspiration as I write, the writer laughs from deep inside. He knows there is no victory when hope and love are lost. He knows there is no future in the path I walk…
What are your thoughts on this poem?
My Thoughts & Takeaway
What better way to kick off a new year than with a poem from a collection known as The Search For, written in late hours of dawn in September of 2018? When the sun was coming up and I was smoking a cigar, sitting outside on my porch in Columbus, Ohio, all I could think about was my life. This is the first poem that I truly tried to write without a full cup of inspiration that year, and it was the mark of a transition that led me towards writing more and more until the present where I write every day. In 2023, I wrote every single day save for two, which was a massive improvement over 2021 where I barely scratched 300 total days of writing.
This time period in 2018 was a turning point for me, away from the past and on to the future. I may have been working nightshift, but I was productive. I was able to grow professionally and that led to my promotions in coming years. This is a poem not about my professional life, though, it is about my struggles coming to terms with where I was personally. It was a mental shift that led me to write both this and pursue those promotions at work. One was for the drive for change, something new, to keep the bills paid. The other was a drive for tapping into the wellspring that I had shut off to keep my past from creeping back into my life. I could not continue to ignore it, as much as I wanted to, and that mental shift started here.
There are times in our lives that we feel like we are coasting, living life without any given direction, without any progression. It is often in these times that we struggle to tap into what makes us great. For me, it was that emotional wellspring that I turned off to keep the flood of emotion back, which by consequence, slowly eroded by writing abilities that I had cobbled together. I had to essentially start over, with what I could, and that was not good enough for me. I had to scratch things to start over; it just didn’t flow the way I wanted it to. Instead of deleting the words, I left them and tried again. It was a struggle for me to pump this poem out and I wanted it to be obvious to the reader.
This year, with the poems drops, I will continue with the collection theming I started last year. This year, I will go through Demise and Used amongst other collections. Demise, the chapbook of poems that touch on some of the darkest bits of thought I struggled with in 2016, released in 2018 on Amazon Kindle. Used, the collection that almost broke me and made me realize I had to step away from writing before I destroyed myself in my own writing. And that, that was hard to accept. I have had catharsis going through some of these collections and realizations that still come through to this day. I hope that the poems I have to share this year will help both you and me as we search for what we must do in our lives.
I hear another poem is coming every Saturday!