I'll Write Like No One Will Read It

for I am a master at caging my desires

a master at silencing my thoughts

a master at sacrifice

it is always you beyond me

your needs above my own

I care what you think and how you feel 

and how you heal 

because the burden has been placed on me

but no more

why the fuck do I have to be a healer

I never chose to belong among broken things

I want to yell and scream and unearth all the flowers (only sometimes-and I don't want to explain myself)

but I am bothered by the world making me a demon

the cahoneys of something unspoken, unheard of, taboo

and so I have retired my pen,

and vowed to never take it up again. I have deleted everything and then the nagging in my head and heart begins and stories left unfinished find new underpinnings and my brain is strumming all the wild worlds my soul is so desperate to colour (shh! I'm creole, that's how I spell color).

I have hidden my lead and poured out all the ink and washed it down the sink(I know what you're thinking and yes that was my infringement on childish rhymes and rhetoric). I am too afraid to think, more afraid to dream because what if nothing I am aligns with Him. I try my best, my very best not to dream in words but the pictures come alive in my eyes as the syllables fix on the metaphoric page of my brain. I am a fiend, a philistine-I know, I know, I think I am good. I must be a good person, at the very least but can good also cuss and fuss and dismantle and digress and be explicit and illicit and make art out of sex. What if I have been taught wrong-but what if I wasn't and my wanton offends God and my seemingly drunken words only betray Him, my King.

Let Him forgive my beastly and brazen or so it is labeled because God forbid a woman be sensual let alone sexual, but I don't want to be a Je-ze-bel (is that how it's spelled, forgive me I was thinking of the meaning because this is one overused word by people clueless of its the meaning) I have not now, nor have I ever been such a thing but I will create characters that hone this characteristic. My anger and my incredulousness for sometimes I am bitter and cruel, and my hurt seems to linger and my anger festers and then I rage and I lose control or I just stop-dead-still and the turmoil in my soul poisons my wholesome just a little bit. 

I don't understand why He would tell me to write or give me a gift that I can't use with all my might or am I blaming God for the fear in my heart that forces me to bury the talent he entrusted to my fingertips. Create, create beats into my brain like sheet music convulsing against the piano keys-that place you shouldn't sit, that place you shouldn't make love. They pluck patiently like gentle fingers against vibrato strings. I close my eyes to the hymn as the beckoning sings, droning like a lullaby into my veins.

Writing soothes me, cajoles me and keeps me awake. Writing seduces me, humbles me and wraps tendrils around my neck, lulling me into a fantasy. Writing saves me, disgraces me, exposes me and blankets me. It feeds me and starves me and a beggar I will be as long as there are words being peddled by anyone who dares to leave truth and or fable so deeply knit into the lines of any page that you can never tell what is fact and what is fiction.

I have made my decision then-I will write, like no one is reading, like no one will ever read it so that I never cloak or censor my art in any way. I will do it for the love of it and for the whetting...and if you dare to enter these walls or uncover these pages strip down and become bare because there's more to reading than words on a page.

© YumiUk