Once upon a time, I considered myself a writer. Not a reporter, not a journalist, but just some girl who wanted nothing more than a pen and paper in her hands at all times.
And then I graduated college and the real world beckoned. No longer was I able to muster up the words once I settled into my full-time position. Every syllable was AP Style and news related. The creative side disappeared, seemingly, and I became complacent with living in the present, writing in regard to columns and inches, stuck within the boundaries and constraints of the front page.
Then I started this blog and found my voice again; I rekindled my ability to think outside the box and discuss my personal opinions, as opposed to always remaining objective. And for several months, this filled that void, that piece of me I knew was missing, yet couldn’t quite get back. Until recently, that is, when the void reappeared. Smaller, yes, but still echoing a need for my poetic side, my imaginative side, the girl I was before receiving my diplomas.
And though I never truly believed that that portion of me was gone, it’d been a long time since I was proud enough of something I wrote to share it. Coming from me, that’s a pretty big deal. One of my poems was painted on the wall of my high school when I was a senior, and my creative writing class even published a book back in the day – although I completely look at that work of mine as entirely unpolished, but you’ll have that nearly seven years later.
I just knew I missed her and missed that ability to have a completely random thought become a page or several of verse that I was forced to write down in that precise moment. And so, two weeks ago, I pulled out a pen and a completely clean leather-bound notebook, previously tucked away in my humble desk drawer, and left it within easy reach. Before I knew it, I was writing segments of “future” novels, pieces of my own memoir, and the first poem I have written in at least three years.
It’s untitled – as most of my works typically are – but I wanted to share. Sorry for the long banter leading up to this…
She scribbles on the page–
The written word nearly forgotten–
Struggling to regain that love,
That melodic flow,
That poetic tone
She once so easily found.
The letters stutter
And the pen moves more slowly
Across her blank canvas.
Determined to return to her former passion
She fills journal after journal,
Tossing each to the wayside,
Claiming nothing is as beautiful
As she so fondly recalls.
Yet each word is there,
Recounting that love, that flow, that tone,
And only untainted eyes–
Eyes previously unaware of her humble talent–
Can truly recognize that tale
Her scribbles unfold.
It is within those words that her livelihood lies,
Among the erased syllables and forgotten thoughts.
It is upon those pages
Her love, her flow, her tone are embossed
And her true voice is found
I suppose if you shoved me in a genre, it’d be poetry although I tend to write other genres as well. Poetry, however, seems to flow more naturally … even if, like journalism, the market for it is ever so slim. I’ve yet to decide if sharing what I write will become a norm or not on this blog, so if you think it should be or it’s something you folks are interested in, let me know and I’ll definitely consider that while deciding if this is a personal venue my blog should continue to explore.
Any comments – both critical and constructive – are so very welcome and much appreciated. It’s been a very long time since others have read a poem I’ve written and feedback would be fabulous.
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