Solitude
Why is it that I cannot write unless I am alone?
Why must the door be closed?
Is it because of a fear that the work will be seen too early.?
Can I not trust anyone to be critical?
Or worse, can I not accept compliments?
Is it a selfish need to be first to see the completed form?
Maybe, someone else’s presence will disturb the muse, the inspiration?
Or maybe they’d be a distraction, taking attention away from the work?
Or perhaps, outside noise will overcome the voices in my head.
But, why then, can I listen to music as I write?
Is it that I’m so insecure that I don’t want anyone to see the process?
Is it that the last thing I want to hear is that I’m not doing it right?
Maybe it’s that I’m more comfortable when it’s me and the muse.
I know that it has happened, where an interruption has caused me
to lose the entire concept of what I was writing. Poof! Gone forever.
Then there’s the dream: The Perfect Poem.
And what if an interruption caused that to be lost?
So, for now, I’ll just hide away in the Office / Fortress and try to keep
the interlopers at bay. Hmmm....maybe a drawbridge?
-
Author:
MendedFences27 (
Offline) - Published: August 10th, 2022 13:29
- Comment from author about the poem: What a twisted life I lead.
- Category: Humor
- Views: 35
Offline)
Comments4
Nothing twisted about doing a Greta Garbo - I have a solid double locked front door to the cupboard wherein I reside....I emerge when I'm ready...
Good fun, Phil.
Sounds inviting, but my claustrophobia would ruin it.
I too normally write alone but can write with others around. Writing is such an individual way of being in our lives Phil.
Andy
Amen to that, Andy.
dear Poet, may I recommend
you look-up
the working schedule of that great Tennyson
the one his wife managed for him
or maybe
take a look at that elevated desk and vista, setup
that great Dickens' had
in his office of wonders..
see
because, we
tinkerers of syllables and ink
are so far and few
to find fame and fortune, the world
makes us believe
what we do, is effortless and easy
when
they themselves couldn't manage
to pen, a line of poetic sincerity
and so
jealously or merely hatefully
all artistry, is belittled
as a whole
with only the minuscule few celebrated
and all the effort we go through
to write these works of ours
are made to feel like, whimsical traits
when in actuality
each and every one
of our so called eccentric traits
like
finding a quite place, to call upon
our muses and inspirations
are
the essential tools of our craft!
(kinda like
an olympic athlete and that lucky sock...)
lol
Thanks LB. Nice to know I'm among the eccentrics.
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