about self doubt

I want to just have a poetry
wall
Filled with the words I did not make
Why does it feel like an excuse to not write?

My wall will be filled with the words
Of other
People
Who
Inspire
Me

and keep proving to me that it has all been said

Where does a writer
Find
Her
Voice?

Is it in the words of others?
In that place of her deep heart’s longing?
Is there anything unique to bring –of value to the world?
There must  be no?  — Otherwise what is the point?
Life cannot be solely redundant, can it?

For years I have been quoting Viktor Frankl for saying “He who has a why to live, can withstand almost any how” – only to realize it was actually Friedrich Nietzsche who said it and I am not even sure it is the exact quote anymore, except, it is what I kept from the book.

Yet these very words were the foundation to inspire so many – when inspiration was needed.

These very words helped to save Frankl’s life. And in may ways saved mine when I read Frankl’s book “Man’s Search for Meaning”.

I have no idea about so many things.

All I know is that writing makes me feel something real.
It is like an invisible string that releases the unknown to the known.
That potential feeling, always on the edge of our understanding.
That place where spirit meets imagination meets words,
Yet it is not always good when it shows up.

And maybe not always meant to be read.

I fear redundancy

I fear narcissism

I fear being simply awful at it

But those before me encourage posting it

And sharing it

And trusting that invisible hand

That will take the words

And place them at the right place

At the right time

And touch what needs touching

 

[I’d like to think that]

And truth is even if it touched none but the paper

On which it was placed, something happened

And that can be enough

I fear- fear itself, but it has also been my prisoner eluding me from

Answering the voice that helps me reveal the sparks of truth where redundancy evolves into that thing only the one soul placing it out there can do

Reading also makes me thirst for more stories.
[In the end – all we have are our stories.]

And so I write until I can write well. What other choice do I have?

And yes I shall build my wall – from the words of the great ones
Who saved my life over and over again
Both can coexis

 

The girl & the woman

“Tell me about the things you know.”  said the little girl

“I know that I don’t know.” the woman smiled – not really believing the girl would understand, but not being able to help herself.

“I know.” said the little girl

“Really?”  Said the woman…

“Yes. You are wise.” said the little girl.  Looking like an old soul in her slight form.  She pondered some more then said..

“I want to be like you when I grow up”

Intoxicated by the scent of her childhood

On that summer day
Intoxicated by the scent of her childhood
She remembered
The frangipani blossoms on the tree in front of her
childhood home
That beautiful bungalow all wooden house
On stilts
With hammocks underneath
And the outdoor shower made of galvanized sheets placed together in a rectangle
And Next to it
…a giant old copper tub that they used to boil sugar cane juice on the plantations in the olden days, before she was born
She remembered the caterpillars
Trailing along the branches of this tree; believing in the magic they brought…
And she remembered the white gravel yard beneath heated by the sun against her toes
As she looked up toward them,
with not a care in the world but being a child…