There is an ache in my bones,

a grief woven into them

threaded with a kind of fear.

My eyes sting and tear,

witness to my struggle

with sorrow and a vaguely lived life.

What I am groans under the weight

of who I am becoming

as my dreams

(are they my nightmares?)

chase me through the dark hours

while the world

sleeps.

This loneliness that never leaves me,

this fire that causes the burning

of everything that will~

 

leaves me changed.

If I reach out to you,

in my longing to be seen

and understood,

accepted and loved…

would it matter?

 

He hurt her again

today

she didn’t let it show.

She felt the grinding in her bones,

the hand that dealt the blow.

She heard the hatred of

himself exhaled with

every word

and learned the bitter lessons in

the injuries endured.

She trembled

as she stood there looking damage

in the eyes

and wondered how such misery could be

so well disguised.

Her bracelet scattered

broken

glinting brightly on the floor

just as broken

as her

whispered I don’t love you

anymore.

You want to be a writer, but you know you suck a nation of ass.

It’s okay.

A child doesn’t speak clearly at first. It drools it’s nasty garbled message to the world and those who love it praise it and call it an amazing phenomenon…and there it begins.

Read everything. Classics, philosophers, your favorite authors, Reader’s Digest.

Listen to the common truth in the words, the voices across time speaking life’s truth in different voices. Read your own words as you write them and remove all but the exact few that matter to you.

Submit your work to the literary world and hug their rejection letters and suggestions to your heart as you refine your words and learn to speak your truth.

Write when it’s hard and when it comes easily to you.

Write when you’re hurt, angry and afraid. When you want to live and when you want to die. When every nerve is alight and when you’re numb.

When you’re fragile or invincible.

Write until you see the words that make your soul quiver in recognition and ecstasy.

Then step aside. Look at the crazy beautiful kaleidoscope  you’ve created and begin to sift the wheat from the chaff.

Truth is essential, every superlative you used is not.

It doesn’t matter how “far” you get. You have to let go, get out of your own way, let yourself fall.

Let your crazy and your sane converse on paper. Let all the words caught up in your blood flow onto the page in front of you until you begin to ask yourself questions only the words can answer.

If and when the moment comes when you lock into the sweet spot, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll write in your car driving 70 mph, at work with everyone calling for your attention, in the dark morning hours before your alarm goes off and late at night when you should be sleeping.

Your fingers will itch for the keyboard

the ink pen

the notes on your iPhone.

You’d use a crayon if you had one.

Then you’ll know. No one will have to tell you. You won’t need permission.

If you have to keep the words alive even when you’re unpublished

Unacknowledged

Unpaid…

You’re a writer, and you rule the world.

Where are your words?

Start with One.

She knew she was dying

and she wasn’t afraid.

She didn’t struggle with the knowing,

it would come when it would.

She accepted it along with

the heart that would cease its beating

just long enough to dim her vision

before resuming its erratic pace and pauses.

She would stumble sometimes

as the universe would spin around her

turning stars into

fireflies.

She’d laugh along with everyone

at her utter lack of grace

although she carried plenty of it

Inside her.

She forgave swiftly and completely

every injury she took

from another soul,

her heart growing larger and softer

as her body became thinner

and lost strength.

Time was precious to her

so she freed herself

from all that was dark and angry.

She surrounded herself with beauty;

she gave herself the gift of

Peace.

When she felt the tingling

in her fingertips during those times when

her heart was too tired to push

that last little distance,

she’d catch herself touching flowers

and hands

and faces

wanting to remember the feel of them

later.

The rain moved her to tears

and it gave her solace  to know that creation

was weeping on her behalf

in gratitude

for her one year

of joy.

I do not knock

on the door of your heart

locked tightly against

all you long for

and fear

at the same time.

I do not ask

permission.

I come quietly closer

to lay my cheek

against its warmth.

I press my hands

gently

upon the soft spots

not yet hardened by

time and trial.

My arms encircle

protectively

the raw, sharp

and still bleeding parts.

I inhale

the ache of it.

Listen

to its thunderous beat.

I see

the light of it

from behind 

my closed eyes.

With my lips brushing against

it’s coldest spot

I begin to whisper

even knowing

It has long gone deaf

to hope.

I am here…

I am here.

You are not

Alone.