Because I’m bad at consistently motivating myself to put pen to paper, I’ve decided to challenge myself to set aside a half hour or so every day I can to write as much as I can, then set it aside and not touch it again.

I’m learning to live with imperfection because, by definition, creativity is imperfect.

written May 22, 2020

“The Unexpected Rain is Always the Loudest”

Pattering loud on a tin roof,

My mind wanders,

Startled into movement

By the ferocity of the sound.

I think of everything and nothing,

I cannot focus;

I turn my music loud to drown the noise.

The sound I can control

Is better than the mayhem

I cannot.

Rain from blue sky,

Clouds from cloudless.

The unexpected rain

Is always the loudest.

---

“My Mother Taught Me to Pull Weeds After a Storm”

After a storm,

Air is clear,

Ground soft,

Pliable;

Fingers slip easily into mud,

Gripping weeds by the root

–pulling, pulling.

Ripping interlopers free

            Of the earth,

Clearing the way

For flowers to grow.

After a storm,

Head is clear,

Heart soft,

Shapeable;

Ideas slip easily to mind,

Planting seeds anew

–growing, growing.

From the darkness,

Blooming bright and free.

---

“I am Not, I am”

I am not who I was.

I am who I was not.

We are all who we once were,

Who we never were,

Who we once feared.

The passage of time

Has a way of illuminating

Who we think we are,

In all the ways we are not

Who we thought we’d be.

If the darkness illuminates our true nature,

The light obscures it from view.

Those of us who may hide

In a crowded room;

Hone our stealth

From experience,

Crafting our image

To make the least noise.

In time, things change;

We wish to scream,

To shout,

This is, I am.

All that I am Not.

All that I am.