Lately I have been going through a period of indecision and lack of creativity. It is truly annoying and frustrating. I have been filled with discontent with my writing. My perennial insecurity has weaved itself into the fabric of my days. I don’t know about you but when I go through this period of abject moroseness I loose hope for a writing future.
I have spent my life battling insecurity. In the past few years, I have grown into myself, accepted myself for the person I have become. There have been many days of contentment. It was been wonderful coming from a lifetime of self-hate.
The problem with contentment is, for me, it doesn’t necessarily translate into productivity. Then, switching into a time when self-assessment is not that favorable, it is stressful and unproductive. I worry about the blog, whether I have lost it, if I can really move into content writing for a living.
Now I am waiting for the tide to turn. I went away for a few days to recharge. Hopefully, that will help although this morning it doesn’t seem to have. So please hang in there. I’ll get better. I worry about consistency in to future, whether my moods will determine whether I can work or not, but I also know this too shall pass. Be patient, something I need to learn for myself.
Somewhere beneath angry words
and pain of hurt feelings
lies that love, small and private
between you and I.
Touch it . . .
reach beyond shallow fears,
with critical demands for perfection
and petty stabs of insecurity
to find, nestled in the hollows
of raw, aching need
that one fragment of emotion,
pure, untainted by abuse
and draw strength . . .
to search further than cruel torture
and bridge that yawning gap
so we might meet once again
in that private world of caring
found one night in the past,
and begin to renew our faith
in the love we have found
to search for peace,
a common ground of surrender
to love’s cautious ways.
I’ll leave you behind
I bitterly cried
as I glared in the mirror
at a face ravaged by pain,
bloated with frustration
fed with rage and despair
But my child,
the quiet voice said
there are no chains around you.
Only your own fear
kept your eyes blind
to keep the radiant freedom
which was always within you,
could not be chained
could not die, but slumbered,
waiting for conscious mind
to know her truth.
The walls, the limits, the boundaries
are only the product of fear.
True freedom was always
unblemished and held..
Soul chainer you were only,
ever, the visible reflection of me.
Rain streams down the window pane,
echoing a mourning deep within me.
Dank, dismal liquid carrying a message –
no matter that other days bring cleaning
in that water – for the rain
is an outer reflection of insecurity today.
You are too far away, and last night
the phone was silent – your comforting
voice fell on other ears.
So quickly I move toward casting aside –
belief in myself, in you, in us,
is shallow indeed. Needing constant affirmation.
I grow scared if a song drifts across the radio,
crying of pain . . .and think that soon
it shall be mine. Come home,
sometimes I am fine when you are away –
when you are away – today I am scared.
I miss you, am scared for us,
call me, come to me, hurry home
that I might be comforted within your arms.
Hiding away in her private
world of poetry and blankets
wrapped tight for protection
from the elements, wanting
fulfilment of desires
but unwilling to seek them . . .
Shady Sady, eyes of grey –
living in a land of half shadows
and misty images,
floating away into other hands.
Sad-eyed girl of forty,
wanting mother’s arms tight
about her – a father, loving and kind,
to make all decisions, ease
all burdens. Wishing her daughter
the life she lacked courage to lead.
God damn it! Go for it baby!
Hold that head high!
Be haughty. Have an air
Your love won’t be found
in pages of books –
or wishful fantasies.
Seek out your desires,
reach for happiness,
even blankets get holes in them.
Nothing is perfect.
Yet you turn your head
in pensive wondering,
shy denials of insecurities
And sit – reading words of others,
rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth . . . .