Some poets create such beauty when they write–a piece of art.
I create something ugly. It comes from a dark, dank place. It’s full of pain and rage and despair.
I was perfectly happy just reading books. My love for the word (language) sated.
I did not WANT to write. Had I wished to write, I would have taken creative writing classes.
I would have learned how to develop ideas, direct my ramblings into cohesive paragraphs.
I would have learned when to use a colon, a semi-colon, and ellipses (boy, I love those).
The times I wanted to write, I’d sit down and stare at the empty page; rearrange my pens; shuffle some papers, in the hopes that inspiration would hit. NOTHING would happen. Then, at the most inopportune time, the NEED to write would engulf me.
I feel out of control when this happens. I can’t make the words wait, or they will be lost. I can’t staunch the flow or else I feel restless, uneasy.
I become consumed. I think of nothing else.
I feel grubby with need, a nympho with words.
I am left frustrated, unsatisfied and miserable.
Reading takes me outside of myself. I can dream.
Writing brings me inside of myself–a nightmarish place of haunted memories and unfulfilled dreams.
My thoughts are too long to be a poem, not cohesive enough to be an essay, too scattered and unorganized to be a short story, and too short to be a novel.
There are times I feel it is a curse. There are days I rue the moment I spilled my words onto paper.
But…I know that if I hadn’t, it would all still be festering inside of me.
A curse? A cure?
It all depends on the perspective.
What draws you to the meadows,
one photograph after another, of open fields
and tiny fists clenching wildflowers–
weeds to anyone else,
but their petals beckon me.
Who loves me,
who loves me not…
Wandering in fields of green,
I can breathe in the perfume of flowers
Run free, little foal.
for what, I don’t know–
peace in nature,
soothing smells, sounds;
a breeze blowing away worries
that little minds should never have.
I look for simple beauty, bracelets
made from tiny daisies,
fragile as my heart.
I find a respite
from what my soul can’t bear,
my pure mind can’t understand.
Even now, when I see a field, I get the urge
to run free.
This is always an awkward moment…the first blog. Not that I’m new to blogging, having had an account on another blog site. But after a year and half over there, I decided to stretch out a bit. Discover some new things.
So here I am.
Yes, my real name is Piroska. It is Hungarian for “Little Red Riding Hood”. Imagine going through life as a fairy tale character!
I will be posting mainly poetry, interspersed with ramblings and the occasional rant…and maybe a book referral or two.
So bear with me, for the next few blogs, until I get used to this format…this site. I suppose I’ll learn as I go.