I find myself struggling, harder than usual to let it all go this time. The words which formulate in my brain somehow gets stranded as I pick up my pen, line it up on the page and attempt to deliver.
I wonder why. Why this time. Why is it that when I need to release these words the most I struggle. Why, when the words are there I’m unable to kiss the page with my pen.
The word “Honesty” has been running through my mind for quite some time now. What does it really take to be honest? Why, when it comes down to it, are we hesitant? It should all be simple, right? I think My biggest problem is coming to terms with the “it.” I’ve seen, heard, and done some things that I still question . . . even deny. My idea of getting over the “it” usually is to write it down so that I can see it. Say it. Feel it travel from brain to stomach, up my throat and past the barricade of teeth. Say it. To feel exactly what it means to be soul- bearing-ly honest with just myself for once. No one else. Not my audience, nor my readers, but me. In first person. Non-Fiction.
Me. The Five foot Nine Black American lady who’s struggled all her life to feel a part of something. Who’s fought against demons that taps me on the shoulder and teases, taunts, haunts and scares. Who, in my darkest hour, never said “I quit,” because there was still an ounce of fight left in me. Tied a knot at the end of my rope and held on with all that I had until help came. To Me. The Wistful Writer. Born on a snow-day, raised in the son. The son of a gun’s daughter, the wanton one: I am She. the Writer of Words, who’s just only begun. That sticks and stones and words made one.
To be soul-bearing-ly honest. That is my goal. It is a journey that I am on. My poems and stories will reflect open and honest situations . . . no holding back. No. Not this time.
“Write what you’re afraid to write.” That’s where it starts.