Why Do I Write?

Sometimes we need to go back to the beginning. To understand why we started to do something, so we can appreciate the journey. I have been creatively blocked for a while and most of the art I have created has felt forced. I decided to take a short break from writing poetry and posting it to Instagram, not because I don’t adore the community on there, because I do, but because I had forgotten my roots, my reasons for writing. I started to question why I write and it led me to find some of my old poetry, poems and stories I wrote as a young child and teen.

When I opened up the dusty Pokemon tin that lives in a drawer beneath my bed, I smiled at the stack of paper that had been folded neatly, hidden away in a box for nearly two decades. This is where it truly began for me as a writer. I started penning down poetry when I was 7 years old and stories at 10 years old. One of the first poems, that I managed to find, was about a dog and it was written when I was 8 years old.

A sweet poem with simple rhymes. Although I am quite impressed that I rhymed “food” with “intrude” at such a young age. Once I knew how to rhyme, I was unstoppable. Many poems followed. I was a unique child. I even knew it at the time. I always felt different, I was compelled to carry a notebook and pen and write, sketch, doodle anything that lived inside my innocent and growing mind.

I always say to people, even now, that I didn’t choose poetry, it chose me. Whenever I feel uninspired or want to give up writing altogether, I remind myself that some things are much bigger than me. The universe wanted me to be a writer. It wanted me to be a storyteller. I must continue. I must write. It’s in the innermost parts of my soul.

As I grew up, my language and themes naturally evolved. I would write about the seasons, dreams and what I can only describe as puppy love. Rhyming couplets, dotting my i’s with hearts. I did have a chuckle at some of the things I found. I was drawn to a poem titled Dreams, that I penned when I was 11-years-old and felt a warming sense of nostalgia, remembering a positive little girl that believed in the beauty of her dreams and had not yet been broken by the upheaval of this calamitous world.

Life is like a balancing beam, if you fall get up again.

— advice from my 11-year-old self.

At 12 years old, I was more ambitious than ever to pen stories. But no one knew it. Everyone saw a shy preteen who liked to perform on a stage to grow her confidence. But I kept the writer part of me hidden. I became self-conscious, as most teenage girls do. I didn’t believe in my talent. But in hindsight, reading this work back with adult eyes. There is clearly talent emerging…

The sky is griddled with pink and grey. Black rain falls. Moonlight filters through the trees. Each blade of grass glistens, spiked by frost. The breath that escapes me is dazzled. Like a stone falling in a pond, circles and circles of love ripple through me.

— excerpt from Descriptions (aged 12)

By 15 years old, I had written many stories and poems. A lot of them were typed at this stage, as like most teenage girls growing up in the early 2000’s, I was glued to a computer screen. But, I found this short story, a poignant tale of a daughter visiting her mother’s grave. I guess my love for melancholic stories and using emotive language to draw the reader in started here.

My throat was dry like the ancient stone walls surrounding the church. I knelt down, holding back the tears. The pain of guilt overwhelmed me.

— Excerpt from a short story (15 years old)

Now I fast forward, to now. At 28 years old. I have a published poetry book Darkness & Light, which is a ten-time bestseller on Amazon. 4.5k followers on my poetry page on Instagram. A successful collaborative poetry project called First Line Poets and an anthology on the way. I am proud of myself. Despite the setbacks, the obstacles, the years that passed by without putting pen to paper, I truly found my love for writing again. I think we always find our way back to things that are meant to be.

So, I fondly tucked away these poems and stories back into my childhood memory box. They have given me the push I needed. To keep moving forward. To keep writing. To keep carving stories and writing my truth. The moment that my pen stops moving, I lose the essence of me, who I really am. I am a writer, a poet, a storyteller. Stories live in the marrow of my bones. It is up to me now, to write them and share them with the world.

Delicate Flower

delicateflower
Delicate, white flower.
Untouched by fear.

Lost in paradise.
The sky is clear.

Floating on the
surface of blue.

Delicate flower
absorbs the view.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Rain is declining
from misty grey.

Darkness steals
the light of day.

Delicate flower
trapped in storm.

The tide is turning
changing form.

White fades,
no longer pure.

Delicate flower
has to endure.

Fear, loss
tears and pain.

Delicate flower
soaked by rain.

————————

Limp, lifeless
almost dead.

Delicate flower
lifts its head.

Peeping through
the clouded grey.

Is a small beam
of light to guide the way.

Writing Manifesto

writers-block
Staring at the white, hoping for
words. Hoping for salvation.
Wanting to give up. Breathe in
and out and close your eyes – relax.

Stand up and go for a walk, let
the blood flow around your body,
let it feed your mind. Let time
give you the power, let time
give you strength.

Remember that every thought
is important. Just write anything.

Sit back down with freshly peeled eyes.
You can do it. A few words, a phrase,
a fragment of a poem or a
stream of consciousness.

Remember that writing is a muscle.
It needs to be exercised daily.
Overusing the muscle can cause
injury. Not using the muscle
enough  can cause a build up
of negative energy of
‘I can’t do this.’

You can. You can do this.
Just write. Write anything.

Think of your words as reps, your
paragraphs as sets, your pages as
daily workouts. Writing is good
for your health.

 Think of your laptop as
the key to your imagination.
Explore the web for inspiration
but warning: this may cause
procrastination. You might
take a step backwards.

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz these
letters are your best friends, use them.
In any form that you like. You are in
control. Let your subconscious mind
open up to the possibilities of a blank page.

When you see the black and white bouncing
off the page – you will feel childlike once more.
Creating places, spaces – whatever your heart
desires. Just write. Don’t even think about it.

Mark Twain once said, Show, don’t tell.
But it is okay to tell all in a first draft.
This brings hope to the senseless mind.
This creates a story before your eyes.

Go back now and cut words, remember
that words don’t bleed. Words don’t have
feelings – so no attachments. Just cut.

Feel proud. Don’t discourage yourself.
Just re-write.. re-write and re-write
some more. Until the words bond with
the image of your imagination.

Atoms Of Light

eiffeltower

Alive with existence.
I can feel the wind on my face.
The atmosphere carries love – like a bird in flight.
Monumental buildings scattered,
tourists alert. Camera’s ready.

The sky, welcoming the darkness.

The tower packed.
Excitement builds up in my stomach – pit.
Eyes absorb the beauty.
Atoms of light emerge.

Like a giant, I peer over the cast of lights.

Sickly taste on my tongue,
heights never usually faze me.

High. Look. Down. Below.
Long way down…

Time in heaven, comes to an end.

Return to, ground.
Feet, safe and happy.

Enough excitement for one day.

Reality

falling

We are learning about different forms in poetry so I thought
I would have a go at it. Hope you like it 🙂

Limitless potential c r a c k i n g under the dark ice.
Reality.

Soaring, en route to the
sea of selection.

Reality.

Determination to

F
A
L
L

with grace. A verdict will
not be chosen. For. Me.

Harsh sphere rotating, rotating.
The clock t i c k i n g.

Waiting, waiting.

A pebble curves – towards the dying

light of
the pale azure sky.

Every so often.

Hope

diminishes

Spirit fading, sombre. Obscure.
Reality.

Clouds p a r t
in my mind.

Reality.

Perplexed by the rain, interrupting the shine.

Face.
Reality.

Unjust and unpredictable.
Reality.

Maya Joelle

the stories are true

Ruth Anne Garcia

Author and Freelance Writer

deepak sharma writes

Short and Inspiring Stories, Travel Memoirs and Articles

The Poet's Resource

sharing what we know about poetry markets

Daily Poets

Find the Story Anywhere, Every Day. Or Don't, We're Not the Boss of You.

K Morris - Poet

Kevin Morris poet