Oh writing, my love...what are you to me?
More than anyone can know...for you are to me -- ALL.
When the wind blows outside my window
Howling for changes, for diversions,
Urging me to abandon this harsh conviction,
I cover my ears and let tears
Have their way with me:
Boring nights in front of mindless TV,
Trying to evade the Call,
Trying to soothe the hollow ache without you, writing.
But then the night comes when I sit again
Wrapped up with my creativity,
And knowing heart and soul is forever yours, writing.
It isn't that I want it this way...
Alone and unknown, perhaps always unrecognized,
It's just that you, my talent, command
And there is no manner of escape --
Not in pleasurable pursuits or idle restlessness,
Nor in subtle daydreams, which only spawn story ideas:
Every occurrence, every person, every nuance of an event
Is but another idea, another story, another reason
To write, to bring life to airy nothingness...
Creating, dreaming, living or loving,
It is all just part of the art of capturing
Life's fleeting images in written words...
A writer's gift to make it come alive for others,
To portray significant themes for all eternity.
So writing you are to me -- ALL.
Should I forsake the Call,
Whispered from earliest childhood?
Or should I heed it and go forward
Blindly into that maze of artistic souls
Who struggle, write and then tumble into oblivion?
In the end,
It doesn't matter about recognition or success,
For writing is a relentless master
That turns talent into a forever love affair.
And writers must write or be damned!
Sometimes it helps to re-read my past poems; this one in particular speaks to EXACTLY what is wrong with me these days: no creative writing! Without that love, life is a dark abyss for me (and perhaps ALL writers).