I am in search of the beautiful words. I am waiting here, mouth half-open in anticipation, pen poised over paper. I will the words to come to me, to flow through me. Lovely strings that coax life from all that blankness.
See how my own writing is stiff and put together like an awkward ensemble of clothes that are not really my style but which I have to wear because it’s what I have been taught I should wear. I don't like how my prose sounds most of the time. I sound boring, and trying too hard. The effort shows, and the pain of all that effort. I can feel that pain.
Often I don't have the time to just let the words flow, awkward and all until I get to the point when I am just cruising and the writing is happening for real. It takes a while for me to get to that point unlike when I draw or paint. It is very frustrating.
I don't like how my story-telling sounds and feels like a report, without soul. I am a witness but I am unable to convey the truth of what I see. My words are stilted and self-conscious, stiff and clumsy at the same time.
I want to release the true words that are inside me, to get at the core of what I can and need to write. I want to break the walls of the poems and let all the hidden narratives come out, spill over, flood. From being so contained and controlled to becoming a raging storm.