Each of us are fighting battles, tending to wounds, and accepting scars; this year I’ve been on an intensive journey of self-love, awareness, and acceptance, and even though life is getting better I didn’t realize how much compassion and patience I’d need to give myself.
On October 14th I attended a free writer’s conference at the Northern Spokane Library. In each workshop I had the opportunity to share my writing but declined. Though I don’t regret my decisions, I wish I read my poem. Two writers at my table admitted discomfort in reading their poetry to the public, but they did so anyway (the second one inspired by the first <3). I wanted to follow their courage, to raise my hand and confess my thoughts, but I did not. Reading my poem over and over, I blinked away ebbing tears silently.
I’ve used writing to help cope with many sorrows, but poetry provided a new and abstract way of writing about an issue I’d been uneasy and uncomfortable discussing straight out. Although it’s difficult to share, I promised myself that as a writer I would be honest with my experiences, and hopefully succeed in reaching out to those in similar situations. What’s scary about honesty is that people’s opinions of us may change for better or worse, and this will always be the shadow of a writer/artist.
If you’re worried about me, thank you. ❤ Now I ask for peace and ease, as this is part of my journey, and I’m recovering. There’s successes and slip-ups, but I’m better each day. Be it for me, for your friends and family, and for the world, positive thoughts are always accepted.
❤ ❤ ❤
Each morning I’ll start anew,
Eating healthy and obeying curfew,
Saving money and scribbling muse,
Until each day addiction lights a fuse,
Clouding my mind with thoughts of taste,
Wondering where I’ll have my next date.
Promise of productivity and achievement,
I hope, I pray, I beg I meant it,
Rather than drive to that same spot,
Pulling out my wallet for my teeth to rot,
Hoping one bite lulls desire to a halt,
Once I’ve devoured enough sea salt.
Afterwards I shed a tear,
“Don’t cry, you have tomorrow, dear.”
I sit alone in silent spotlight,
Hurting tummy and no thought right,
Dreaming of stark, tiled walls,
Sanctuary doored in maroon halls.
A place to weep alone,
A place to finally atone,
Porcelain esophagus ready to swallow
All that fills me yet leaves me hollow.
❤ ❤ ❤
At the beginning of the poetry workshop, we introduced ourselves and our background in poetry. One woman, who I recognized from previous workshops, explained that she teaches at an elementary school and attends these conferences “for the kids.” This workshop was personal, however, as she enjoys writing poetry and said her friends and family often encourage her to continue.
“So this one’s really for me,” She said with a bashful smile.
Now I understand how she feels.