Not long ago, something shifted within me. The desire to write continually floods my soul, my fingers tingle with need. But…. the words I want to say, they seem to fall on deaf ears. Everything I write is shit. I start, stop, start again. Papers crumpled on the floor. It’s not for lack of trying. The words I want to say, they remain elusive. I desperately attempt to convey my thoughts, my heart, casting about for some sort of connection. Or reason. Or validation. Do I, then, I have to wonder, write for myself or for my readers? Perhaps, sometimes, it’s just for A reader. That special someone. Who may or may not read what I have to say. Probably won’t. Why would he? He knows all that’s in my heart already anyway and the poetry that flows from me is pure, worthless shit. It’s lonely being a writer. But also… it’s a self-imposed loneliness so I really have no room to talk, do I?
tara caribou | ©2018
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