The rains have graced us for a few days now and the quenched earth is showing off her dustless coat. The excited sprouting farmer within can't wait to get her hands on wet soil as the procrastinating scribe scavenges for the right words to express her grey mood.
the new day has settled in
the hour hand is rushing past noon
and my ink is scaling the walls
that separates the voices in my head
why hasn't my poem found me yet?
My writer hasn't managed to sit with my mind for days. Its seams are glistening with crippling paranoia of how to go about creating again. It is something I go through every time I come back to my pens after days of shying away from my uncooperative flow of ink.
You see, my creativity can't be rushed. Every piece is laboured for and severely undervalued until it resonates. Giving simple thoughts -vitality is a rather difficult task, to begin with, and even more so when a writer doubts their scribing capabilities.
shadows came out to play
the spirit must turn into clay
and these hands will sink into its skin
to forge an evolved soul
from the remains of what's within.
I may have a mind full of buzzing words or phrases but then also be struggling with what exactly I want to say or to drive at. This happens when I read more than I allow myself to write.
Everything I try to birth creatively comes out with mixed genes and I can't help but feel like there is a need to separate the pieces. And every time I edit my free writes, I end up deleting the whole thing or reconstructing the entire piece.
This is where I let my inner critic take over and end up losing days to the fear of trying again. Oh, how I envy those who maintain a clear link between themselves and this energy to write. The consistent ones. Those trusted with the fluency of their pens.
before the sun sets
the afternoon lets the night
ready herself as one half of the day wears
a poker face mask then waits for dark
to clothe it in a seductive shiny gown.
And even as I struggle with low levels of self-compassion and high levels of unnecessary doubts or the inability to channel my thoughts clearly most of the time, I still can't give up my pens. They are the only consistent remedy of all times.
So... How have you been yourself?
wambuku w.