WRITING WITH A BROKEN PENCIL

I got called out on the fact that for the last two years I’ve let my personal life interfere with my writing and subsequently, my writing sucks, big time. This struck a too tender nerve because I have always, in the past, allowed my personal life to dictate my writing. Some of my greatest moments have played out in black and white, the most simplistic words twisting into exquisite poetry. The ability to spin emotion onto paper has been one of my greatest gifts and somewhere along the way I tripped over the box, got all tangled up in the ribbons and bow and started writing with a broken pencil.

I have to admit that lately I’ve been holding back, holding out, and just not holding down what I know I need to be doing. I’ve been so busy biting my tongue and simply ignoring what has been in my heart to release that I haven’t been writing and what I have written, hasn’t been any damn good. I have felt it with every fiber in me and I chose to ignore it, not wanting to make waves, rock the boat, and risk sinking simply because of something I might have confessed under the guise of someone else’s story.

Writing use to keep me sane, my most difficult moments finding their way onto white paper. For too long now I have been teetering on the edge of psychosis, closer to falling off the brink than not, simply because I’m hiding myself behind syntax that hold no emotion instead of allowing my passion to dwell smack dab in the middle of my words.

Knowing what is wrong is one thing. What I struggle with, is how I might fix it.