I hadn’t written a single word of fiction for two weeks. It was killing me inside. I write fiction not just because I love it but because it’s an excellent stress relief tool. I reached out to the tarot for guidance, to help me find a way out of a desperate and tense state of mind. Every time I dealt out a spread, the creativity card kept coming out. I know I’m creative, that’s the problem! Face your fears was another. But how do you face the fear of not being able to create when you can’t write a single word? A lot of card shuffling happened and a card flipped out and landed face down. The universe was trying to tell me something. I took a deep breath. Somehow, I knew what card that was.
Creation imposed itself in my brain. I put the cards away, and began to write. Of all the things to write …
Waiting for the immovable chance of moment
seeded in conception
spreading through amniotic protection
laying bare the foundations of soul and secretion
hounded by limitations
spearheading contradiction with useless darkness
spurring meaningless incantations of cynicism with lashings of boiled light
knitting ideals one solitude at a time
burning images to the blind
purge and the words will come
streaming, steaming, writhing, slithering,
naked and …
I am creation
What’s your excuse …
Normally I leave poetry to those who have the gift. I struggled learning it while doing the Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing. But sometimes, poetry pops into my already crowded brain and drops a line or two. I wrote this at a time that was dark, scary because I couldn’t even tap on the keyboard or hand write a single word. It wasn’t writer’s block because I could still work on my assignments. It was the issue of doing too much all at once.
No sooner had this poem popped out, I decided to take a deep breath, answer the question it asked of me. Doing too much wasn’t my fault. Life piles things up on you. My excuse was I was letting it get in the way of what I truly wanted to be. A writer. So I decided I needed to take a break from homework and rest up.
I now love this poem because it made me answerable to the predicament I was in. Writing it out somehow ex-or-cised the deeemons. The homework will soon end.
Poetry is like a blade on a knife. It can graze the surface, dig in an inch or plunge right into the heart of the matter. You take out whatever you need and as long as you write poetry that comes from the heart, soul and mind it will always help you to express yourself. I’ll take creativity anyway I can.
And yes I know it doesn’t have a title. Does it really need to have one?
The Muse was proud of this one,