A gift to myself

                I read a quote recently that said, “A real writer doesn’t want to write, a real writer has to write.” This quote rang true for me. I have taken a few months off of writing and my soul is now heavy with what all should have been put into words but had been ignored and placed high upon a shelf to be forgotten.  My heart is still heavy from all the changes in the past few years. I feel years older than I really am.  I have been drifting down life’s path letting its currents guide me.  I feel as if I have had no true impact on where I am.  I find myself listless.  The only true relief I feel is today, right now, as I sat on my deck with the keys clicking away below my fingers.  This feels like home.  It brings me such comfort to sit here and know that my faithful friend, one which I can never loose, is once again in front of me and ready to hear all of my confessions. 

            I am sitting here looking up at the night sky and the only break in the darkness is an outline from the moon shining against a break in the clouds.  It might be my imagination, but as I stare at it an outline of angel wings appears.  I can only take this as a sign that I have at least two people up there who are looking down at me with joy knowing I have picked up my pencil again. 

            Life is funny.  We wake. We eat. We work. We sleep. Then we start the cycle all over again the next day.  It becomes a monotonous, repetitive entity.  It is easy to see how some people are easily carried along without a thought.  Hell, I’m guilty of it myself these past few months.  Between work and raising a child, I find that normally at the end of the day I have no energy to sit down and tackle all the little nuances that day has brought through writing.  I remember this time last year I was writing at least two pieces a night.  I am making a statement right now that I am going out tomorrow and buying a journal and will write in it daily.  Be it a prose, poem, rant, or whatever.  I will not let this number of months go by again without putting my pen back on paper.  This will be my 29^th birthday present to myself, the gift of words, of comfort.

What is Left

What can you say when the words just will not come out? 

What is there to say when the inspiration is gone? 

How can you paint a picture with words when you cannot see the colors anymore? 

The stars still sparkle over head while the wind whips at my face. 

The crisp night air leaves a lingering trace. 

What once came so easily is now gone away. 

I lost my inspiration on that unforgettable day. 

I no longer know the words to speak, or the thoughts to replace.

I can no longer hear your voice telling me to get it straight. 

A life which was once full of child-like laughter, has now turned into utter disaster. 

The sun is less bright and longer is the night. 

Since the day you were ripped away from family and friend. 

No one even knew how close it was to the end. 

What is left for us to do but pick up the pieces of our broken hearts,

And start counting all the missing parts.