I often wonder why I can't think of anything to write. It's not like my mind is empty. It is always churning away about something. I'm just never sure if it's anything anyone would be interested in, but then I realize that I write not because I need an audience. I just need to articulate my thoughts. Take them out of my head and put them on paper so I can get a better look at them. You can't see your own face without a mirror, and that's the way it is with thoughts. I need to see my thoughts - black words on white paper - in order to see who I am.
How I write is different. I try to write in a way that is appealing to an audience - should anyone be interested in what goes on in my head. There are authors that I love to read simply because they know how to use words in a way that appeals to me. That's the kind of writer I want to be. I don't care if you (my audience) agree with what I say, but I do want you to enjoy the way I put the words together.
Here is a little poem inspired by a friend's loss. I hope you enjoy the way I put the words together.
How I write is different. I try to write in a way that is appealing to an audience - should anyone be interested in what goes on in my head. There are authors that I love to read simply because they know how to use words in a way that appeals to me. That's the kind of writer I want to be. I don't care if you (my audience) agree with what I say, but I do want you to enjoy the way I put the words together.
Here is a little poem inspired by a friend's loss. I hope you enjoy the way I put the words together.
Last
Rites
His hands,
searching for
usefulness,
smoothed her tired
pillow.
He matched his breath
to the ragged rhythm of
hers.
Panic rose and filled
his mouth,
threatened his face;
her words, shreds of
mist
against his cheek,
“I have always loved
you.”
Familiar words.
“And I, you.”
An intimate catechism.
In the corner, Death hung
his head.
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