Friday, April 25, 2014









Thursday, April 10, 2014

Linking with Ink

It happened slowly, gradually, over time. Without even being aware of it, unwittingly; knowing and yet unable, unwilling to take steps to rectify the situation.

The above description could fit a myriad of possibilities. In this instance, I write about the little piece of me that lives in every punctuation and verb and noun. Every pause and breath, every hurried phrase and pitched nuance. Prolific as I am, restless as I have been, waiting as I always will be, writing is not a mere account of my life to be advertised with good luck horse shoes or deep wisdom. Writing is invitation for neither ridicule nor praise, nor scorn, applause, appreciation nor judgment yet if they offer nothing and remove nothing, by the same token they are condemned as useless.

I took time out of writing to live in the "real world" instead of the wonderland of my imagination. In the "real world" I found the repetitiveness of the everyday both comforting and tiresome. I found that the anticipation to "do" was tampered by the arrogance of "can." I found that years can pass without communication and months can fly without taking stock. Without a creative outlet to channel my frustrations, to vent my hurt and reflect sense into a beautiful, tortured world, anxiousness took over, OCD spiked, possessiveness and control became paramount, nothing else mattered but self-preservation and self-reliance. I was riding the wave that God had created, surfing on a board of impossible grace, not wanting the momentum to stop, not wanting the wind to die down as fiercely as they howled, not wanting to catch the whisper to obey.

I could keep these thoughts all to myself. I could spend hours with stained fingers and bruised sheets, penning thoughts to paper, moving limbo towards a fixed course, all in the privacy of my own world.

No solidarity do I seek,
Nor understanding or comment,
Not even a squeak.

No kind word or harsh reply,
No long time friend,
No passer-by.

No talk of hope or encouragement,
Don't speak of worth or accomplishments.

Each to his own,
Each to his strife,
Each has his woe,
Each has his life.

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Creating or Finding

Two trains move
Are they side-by-side
Or is there too great a divide?

One starts with I
One ends with me
But is it fate or destiny?

Is therefore right?
Or is it because?
Maybe it's down to a coin tossed?

Mutually exclusive
Do we have to choose?
Must it be only win and lose?

Perhaps the answer as always, lies somewhere in between for the more I live out my little creations, the more I find little impressions of my soul in the expression of my doing.