Finding voice…
Be tells me to keep writing
Cait tells me to just write
My past tells me I can’t write
Fear writes for me
Anger writes the loudest, and is most prolific
Joy is silent, nearly invisible
Sadness drones on and on
Pain is sharp, isolated, and intense
Journals are scattered about my home
Tossed into the recesses of the car
They harbor numerous attempts of binge/purge
When moving I will devalue their loyalty
As I shove them through the shredder
The ghosts of childhood critique every effort
They silence me with threats to expose my failure
Deep inside the struggle
To break through the barriers
Quakes with revelatory thunder
Bisous,
Léa
poetry, photos and musings oh my! 
As always you give my inner self a voice, even better than I can. What a gift to us, your readers. “the ghosts of childhood critique every effort” really struck home. My father was a newspaper editor, brilliant, but coming from a different place…..took a long time to value my voice enough to risk it. Thank you so much for sharing from your heart, which speaks to, and even for, mine.
Thank you Eileen. There is not a higher compliment and it is much appreciated.
I simply do the typing. It is my heart that dictates what you read.
So you have heard the Tuesday Morning voice inside my head? I have lived so many years that I can actually muster a laugh at it some days, ignore it others, and just acknowledge it and keep writing. But every once in awhile it grabs my full attention and I end up wasting my opportunities and precious few hours to listening. I have come to the conclusion, all of this is probably what most people who create go through.
Most don’t articulate it as well as you did in this poem though. Just excellent.
Thank you.
Thank you!
BTW, I’ve been around awhile myself! Perhaps we are both vintage?
Indeed I am.
Another boomer?