Words for thought.

Feeling inspired by the amazing Tyler Knott Gregson.

Tired fingers from tired words typed,
worn out hands from 600 days of spilling
and nothing around to soak them up.
Am I a writer if I don’t write the right words
to open the right veins in the right ways
to carry the letters to the right heart
to send the right blood to the right muscles
to make you run to me?
Am I a writer if I write of love and hope
and the promise of something better than this?
Should I write of broken rooms and scar painted arms?
Should I write of hopeless things and four-letter-words
that feel like strength on the surface but hide
insecurity below? Of getting lost in a drink
or wearing black clothes and being disillusioned
with the world I walk through?
So many fingers pointed at the words I write,
insults thrown like rocks from a crowd
where no one has to have a face,
but I will write of the world I want to see,
and I will never apologize to those
who cannot find the darkness
in the light I spill ink for.
I will never apologize to those who do not dive deeper
and see the ache and longing and the weight
of the writing.
Am I a writer if I do not write
the words you wish to read?
I will write the words
as I have always written them:
for one set of eyes
on one face that had the courage
to set down the rocks
and step out from the crowd.

This poem definitely hits home because there have been so many occasions in which the truth of struggle and fear is a truth that intentionally goes unacknowledged. Because things fell into place in an incredible, wonderful way and  seem quite fantastic, we want to believe that they are, and this blind understanding of the world around us neglects to see that there is so much more than how it appears to be. Tyler writes this heartfelt soliloquy to those who question his writing and his motives for such. My favorite part is the ending: “Am I a writer if I do not write/ the words you wish to read?” Is my happiness contingent upon telling you that I’m happy? Is my fear in direct correlation to what you believe my fear should be?

Moral of the story, my sweet friends, be you. Feel your feelings. Use your words. To hell with anyone who says or believes otherwise. Their job is to write their story. Your job is to write yours.

Here’s to another week.
Ms. S.

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