I used to write poetry – all the time, as a matter of fact – in college. When my creative mind had no boundaries. I have journals full of poetry, loads of scrap paper filled with words and thoughts and creativity. I stopped writing (creatively) just as I was finishing school and haven’t done so since.
When I had to unexpectedly move home with my parents for six months after graduating from college, I pulled out all of my writing in hopes that it would inspire me. It sat there in my room for months, but no inspiration came. Then, one day I came home and found my Mom had read – everything. She was sitting in the living room with one of my journals. And she said, tearily, “You have to do something with this. It’s simply wonderful.” I never did. I packed it all up. I never gave it another thought.
I’ve been thinking about getting those journals and scraps of paper out lately. I need some inspiration but I’m worried that none will come. What I really need is for someone to light a fire under my ass to get me moving. Until that inspiration kicks in I will leave you with one of my favorites from the archives (hopefully there will be more to come):
in fluid precision
against the rigid boundaries
of his realm
in a world of silver linkage
and alien filament
of lost dreams
A sea of reconstruction
waiting to take rightful possession.