I sit down to write, Not a song, not a
poem. Not a rock anthem to thrill
the masses, please the DJ’s, or be the pick of the
top 40 stations.
Not a piece of poetry filled with rhythm and rhyme, with all
the right accents, the correct emphasis on
syllables and beats, but what does flow
from my fingers like fire is the story…
A story so personal and powerful that my fingers cannot dance across
the keys fast enough. The words pile on top of one another, the dyslexic nature
of my fingers betrays my ability to correct them. That will have to
wait, because all that matters is the passion, the fear, the anger,
the doubt, the uncertainty. I write to calm the storm of thoughts, the multitude of
voices that surround me, the ones that say,
“Yes, it did happen that way. The pain is real.”
The pain is real.
It did happen.
The throbbing dulls with each word, the fear fades with each sentence, the doubt
gives way to certainty with each paragraph.
I am not a writer to please anyone, but to write the hard stuff, the things
that scare me the most, so in the end
my own soul will be healed.
