Thoughts on Writing #1

Simple Tendencies

I don't know what I write about

 

whether it be the short bursts of emotion

that blast behind my eyes like fireworks on a lake, 

their gasps of illumination echoing across mountains,

 

or the weight and comfort of memory,

wrapping me in a cocoon of nostalgia

that wicks away the moisture building in my eyes

and hugs me like my father would, if he were able.

 

I don't know what I write about

 

Whether its the deplorable state of the world

and the cracking of thunder on the horizon

as different doomsdays

plot their eventual coup of the nations

that so desperately sought to evade their power,

 

Or the singular chaos that is life with mental illness

the conversations in my head

where tribunals war with each other over who is

king

and who must sweep the stables of their refuse 

and sleep in the straw bales that shape my personality.

 

Nobody knows what I write about

Try as I might to make it sensible, circuitous, logical,

the rationale behind my decision is always the same.

Hide.

Run.

Don't let yourself ever become the burden you fear you are.

 

 

I don't know what I write about. 

And I'm not sure I want to know.

Because knowing is acknowledging

that there is a problem,

and that no one but me can fix it.

 

and in the end,

I don't care, either. 

  • Author: JCE (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 3rd, 2021 13:34
  • Comment from author about the poem: Just a summary of what i've posted so far, and how I think my writing style develops with each passing day. It's a process, anyone can tell you that, but sharing is a lot harder than I would have thought it would be. I hope this shows people that they're not alone when they feel inadequate.
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 17
  • User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
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Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    I think none of us know, really..
    sometimes I read what I've written from a few years back
    and I have no idea, even
    with that date stamp to help me recall
    what I must have going through, or feeling
    for me to come up with such alien words,
    but then at other times, I realise
    that me inking - out, so much scarlet
    on what was once, a stranger of a blank canvas - connection,
    has helped me, make it
    to the Today - me,
    reading and reflecting, calmly
    while breathing, easily
    and maybe, there's a Tomorrow
    where I can look back, at the problems of today
    with that same luxury relief, of distance...
    (another wonderfully intimate write, dear Poet
    thanks for sharing)



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