April Welshman
Stories (1/0)
My Poetic Injustice
“As darkness falls, she whispers words too frail for those to hear.” This was the first line of the first stanza of a poem that I cannot remember any more of. As much as I can’t remember that poem I also feel estranged from the words I wrote. A poem I wrote for an honors English class contest seems to ruminate in my memory, but why only that line? Maybe these words were a premonition of the passion I would let go of. A love I would lose. That would just slip away without a goodbye. Those words as I read them now are like a hot steel blade, cutting through a seal and opening a deep understanding of my loss. Once a poet, once a writer, my pen has been lain dormant. My words have gone frail becoming only a whisper of what I once was. Writing for me was a way for me to understand the soul of who I am. A way for me to speak when I couldn’t breath and understand the complexities of who I was becoming. I won the contest that was written to describe a woman’s last moments of breath. I never realized what a foreshadowing that line would be. Once I wrote poetry in a fervent fashion, and somehow my passion died. It had faded away. A part of me ceased to exist and I am just realizing it as these words dance about on my screen and circle around in my head. Writing for me is a very personal journey. A very emotional and destructive beauty. Yet I have forgotten its face. And it seems to have faded away. We were in love, my pen and I. It was all of what I couldn’t be, it spoke the words I felt I myself couldn’t speak. It was my other half. How did I lose such a deeply rooted passion without so much as noticing it was gone? My writing has been a long road of personal revelations and healing. The sentence of that high school poem will go on to represent the death and rebirth of what writing is to me.
By April Welshman6 years ago in Poets