"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
I can’t battle the presumption
Carried in my words
That I’m not a channel for destruction
That I’m not better left unheard
I can’t drown out little whispers
Wearing my own voice
When I always chose my battle’s victors
And it was never the right choice.
I want to talk to you
But I don’t know what to say
Sometimes I think things would be better
If I simply went away.
I know that there’s a middle ground
But I’ll be damned if I know where
I’m either swallowed by the oceans
Or drowned in too much air
I want to find the place
Where I know I need to be
But I can’t navigate myself
As well as everybody
Still, I want to find my way
Without turning into stone
Because while it hurts to carry everything
It hurts more to be alone.
I worry, if I write my soul,
There’s no one that would understand
And so, as if some ancient scroll,
I translate for my brave new land
But here, a word has lost its meaning
And there, a tune has lost its singing
And somewhere along the way has gone
The very thing that I wished put to song.
And yet, I worry, if I write my soul,
No one could ever understand
And maybe, the glass might be half full,
But that doesn’t mean it’s not half full of sand.
And, who could be that keen on drinking?
Better to reign as queen of over-thinking:
And decree instead of glasses, better a box,
And better still to double-check it locks.
How far shall I push myself
Just to feel like I’m awake?
I’ve still left so much upon the shelf…
Is that wisdom, or a grand mistake?
I want to feel like it is over
And I have won it all at last;
But much like finding four leaf clovers,
No luck comes until the work is passed.
Wandering words whirlwind within,
Wondering where or when I’ll begin:
For forests of folly feed fully my thoughts;
Nothingness, naysaying, pulling in knots.
Tell me how they know
When to leap and when to stay;
Tell me where to go
When everywhere’s a way.
Tell me what you see
When there’s nothing left to say;
Please, just stay with me
When I know I’ve gone astray.
My verse affords me not
The magic of transformation;
Bland are all my thoughts,
And every word’s a shallow imitation:
A fine echo of a troubled mind;
One confused, a little tired,
Craving a warmth it cannot hope to find —
Will not hope to find, for such is mired
In mistakes that scar like fire,
And to guard against with cold
Is the only defense this child knows
To keep from growing old.
I don’t want to be easy…
But I don’t want to be cruel.
How to be what I need to be,
When I don’t know what I need to be at all?
I don’t want to be weak…
But I can feel myself trembling.
Curse my unsteady heart!
And curse conflicted logic, that darned uncertain thing!
Because I don’t want to be foolish;
But I’m not sure which is not:
To be alone forever,
Or to take the chances that always may be fraught?
I can’t tell if it’s comedy or tragedy,
That someone might believe there’s something to see in me,
Or that at such a hint I have to think
“What do they think that they can get from me?”
I could say my faith was at some point shattered —
But I never kept it where it might fall;
I could say my soul is long since broken —
But it’s hidden away, never touched at all.
So I can’t tell if it’s comedy or tragedy,
But there’s something to this thing
That’s either just a touch ridiculous
Or sadder than most anything.
Writer In Retrospect 