I had the privilege of sharing this piece with my writing group during a dinner/reading party. The main theme I wanted to address was an obstacle I think many writers have trouble overcoming, myself included. A lot of times we feel like there's a story or message inside of us that we want to get out, but we're so fearful of an imperfect delivery that we never begin to put words on the page at all. I usually prefer writing fiction than poetry, but felt that the latter was a better medium for this occasion. Imperfect as it was, my group seemed to have enjoyed it, I hope you do as well.
A
thousand half-ideas, through my mind they race.
The
parchment lays bare, an empty canvas staring at my face.
Quill
in my hand, I ready myself.
Dip
it in ink, then on to the page.
Steady
now, slowly move your hand.
The
words must be perfect, you understand.
But
the quill hovers in place,
Refusing
to fill in the empty space.
From
its tip the ink begins to fall,
Dripping
down and staining the canvas wall.
A
dark puddle soon forms,
Unsightly,
unpleasant, imperfect.
I
toss out the ruined page and prepare another,
This
time there will be no mistakes.
Quill
in my hand, I ready myself.
Dip
it in ink, then on to the page.
Steady
now, slowly move your hand.
The
words need to be perfect, you have to understand.
But
the hand still freezes and the puddle still forms.
The
process is repeated several more times,
Each
no more successful than the last.
And
with every attempt the quill seemed to grow in weight
Making
it harder and harder to hold it straight.
Oh,
quill in my hand, why have you forsaken me?
Quill
in my hand, when did you get so heavy?
At
last I set it down to rest.
Finger
on my hand, I steady myself.
Dip
it in ink, then on to the page.
Steady
now, just move your hand.
The
words are messy, crude, unrefined.
The
words are on the page, and they are mine.
