At the end of the day, I just want to spend time with you
Doesn’t matter what we do
reading dozens of knock knock jokes
You’re the smile on my face
A reason to keep going
And every step I take has you in mind
I start and I start
And I just know I’ll finish
So I start some more
But the secret is to finish
At least that’s what I heard
We’ll see some day
I mouth the words hoping they’ll be caught
But without a sound I could be saying anything
He doesn’t mouth a thing
He stands there staring waiting for more from me
But I have such a hard time getting my own words out
“What are you thinking?” I mouth silently
He stands there waiting for his turn to speak
but I continue to mouth my own questions that I so badly want answered
The words won’t slip out.
My legs twitch
and my mind black as the deep blue.
I’ll fish and meditate
and search for a hook
but when nothing comes
all I have left is a defensive rotation between
force and small rests
From now on I will believe in my writing. I will be confident enough to be teachable while also being true to me. It took a lot of work to be able to write that and mean it at the same time. It’s not just an affirmation it’s a statement of who I’ve become. I will continue to reflect on this so I can maintain my belief. But I hope to stay here if not forever for as long as possible.
My motivation to write is my family. I write for our future for healing from our past. I write for our dreams and aspirations. I want the best for us. I want for us to grow together and to always share a table. Every word I hope, adds to our growth in spirit and in wisdom.
I love my life and accept that most days I’m not going to check everything off the list and that is ok.
There are many times I give away my time to write. I give it and give it and give till I’m writing 10 words and starving for solitude. I know I should hang on tighter to my time to write. I should be more demanding but it’s such a slippery thing. It shifts and molds in countless ways. I grip, then I give my last five minutes and I’m left grasping at nothing. I slip away because writing isn’t something that can come or go. I, the writer am coming and going. Writing does not cry without me, I cry without it. I ache and spiral and shift when I’ve strayed too far, but it is always as I left it, blank, unfinished, or completed. But when I return I won’t be exactly the same as I was when I left.
-Saschia On Writing
I read the same line 6 times
Then when I tried to leave I backed into my mother’s car
That’s when I decided it was best to stay inside
With the book I’m too tired to read
I stare at the letters and they don’t stare back
The words they have sounds and proper places
But they sit there with no meaning
Not these words here that you’re reading
because they are coming out not going in
It’s the going in part that’s not working.
I’ll try again tomorrow morning.
The days give me thoughts collected over time
The days don’t give me a thing I invested in my tomorrows
I held on to my collection of thoughts and waited for them to double
Thoughts are of no value left inside a head
Write them down think up more and write those down
Save them for tomorrow