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I tell myself I need to write.
I tell myself I need to inspite,
Of not having things to write on,
I rattle myself like an empt cage,
Or a mostly empty tank of a bike,
I rattle myself, finding very little within,
And I carry on with my day.
The one night, in silence, something comes to me.
It strikes me at an odd moment indeed,
With sleep in my eyes, and my bare feet,
The cold in the air, the chill and freeze,
Poetry comes to me.
It’s strange to me.
When I tell people I don’t write or can’t,
They refuse to believe me.
People sometimes think that I churn out poetry,
That every word I write or type is born from me or into me, not realizing that the pen can be…. Frustrating.
Believe me when I tell you that I cannot write because I do not write, I curve these silences around me into words sometimes because I cannot stand the silence.
Or sometimes, it just comes to me.
I start speaking my poetry into existence, like a God speaking something into existence.
When I start out, I don’t know what I’ll end up talking about.
The art of the pen is beautiful indeed, but it frustrates you, and every writer can breed, the same problem that plagues me.
I don’t write for days.
Random days or months go by without picking up the pen and writing, and every time the rust is shaken, the expectations of a good piece remains with me because I know what is expected of me.
Expectation is the worst thing you attach to a writer because as the mind wanders into worlds unknown, it becomes known from pieces before that there are expectations from you galore, certain level of art that people adore,
That I have to, or need to, live upto.
I churn myself sometimes, day and night
Just to find someone to write, on or about,
Without a doubt, a certain expectation in mind,
Hoping I can find, something worthwhile to pick up the pen about.
I told myself I wouldn’t write in rhyme,
Because it choked me every time,
In my early years, when I tried to write,
The rhyme was wrong, that’s how it felt.
I look to the stars now, and I write in rhyme,
I break the promise I made myself because now it makes sense to me to write in rhyme,
Because, in time, I realized that it makes sense now.
I see somewhere along the way,
A random rambling of the night, can turn into something that people like,
So I stop forcing myself to write lilies and flowers, to decorate my pieces with
Beauty and flair, I don’t try to flair,
What I write.
This is a random ramble that I’m recording.
But between this, know that I didn’t write for months because what I wrote wasn’t fancy or beautiful enough to share with the group,
And so I didn’t write.
I forced myself not to write until what I wrote was beautiful and every time I shook the old tank, it shed rust on the paper, and rust is not what I could show.
Recently, someone told me to write for myself.
For me to embrace the rust like I embraced the flowers because both were a part of me,
And now, I write. With no expectations,
And nothing expected of me.
I stopped telling myself I had to write.
I stopped shaking that empty tank.
Because, Expectation is the worst thing you attach to a writer,
because as the mind wanders into worlds unknown, it becomes known from pieces before that there are expectations from you galore.
This is the random ramble after midnight.
As I shake off the rust again.