writing is a part of who you are
and though it might be "dormant" for now,
it's still there, waiting, capturing, recording
and filling the beautiful empty spaces
that are open within you to hold all
that will one day flow out of your pen.
Don't lament,
keep doing the wondrous things
that you're doing, keep growing
and especially keep knowing
that when the day comes
for you to really write again,
words will flow,
life will open
and make the time "just right to write."
Know that many, many care,
admire and think of you
and send you (((hugs)))
and appreciation from afar
(and one of those many happens to be Me).
You are talented in so very many ways!
Blessings, dear one!
©Pamela Rae 04.30.2017

Inspired by a beautiful poet who I met here, who is such an incredibly talented soul--but this write too is inspired by ALL of you. We all hit the dreaded writer's block (or stone wall!) at times and I just wanted to reach out and encourage each and every one of you to never give up on your talent.
Thank you for your writes, for reading mine, for caring and sharing!
mjad 1d

why
can I never find
what I want to hear
but I cannot say
what I want to read
but cannot write
A million other
stories and tales
poems and novels
but none contain
what I can never
find

fill me with  your soul
spill unto me every thought
every sickness  of the heart
one by one
we'll take them apart
and piece by  piece
we'll rebuild you whole

I do not write so much as bleed out onto the paper in moments of catastrophe,
baring the pain of my soul for the whole world to see -
the words spill out from my heart until it aches no more,
until the wounds from the battles I’ve fought are no longer sore.

I don't write anything
Just see hidden reality
and feel deep,
the unsaid i read....

And, and

What people do to me
What breaks me
It fills my pen
And bleed.......

with his passion for reading
and my passion to write,

with all of my heart
and all of my might,

I want to pen the words
which he’ll imprint onto his mind:

because my words are the only piece of me,
with him, that I will leave behind

slowly
but surely
i know i am running
out of my favorite ink

Cold wind blows through the bones,
Innocence will bite the dust in our souls,
Sing me a melody for my freedom,
Else give me a bullet and a gun,
Yesterday is a tale and tomorrow is obscure,
And here I am in present with my burning soul,
How can I breathe in the same, my brightness
While you are the angel who dance in my darkness..

bryn Apr 18

how to write:
1. paper
2. pencil
3. write

but how

i should be doing my work but i'm not oops

the reason i watch for the small things is because,
you may not know it, but when I walk home from work in the middle of the road, I’m seeing things as if i may never see them again because I don’t know where my mind is taking me.
I spit my prayers through grit teeth, it’s forced from my guardian's mouth when she looks through my feed and texts and tweets at night to fuel her (sometimes) self righteous ego and maintain control over my life.
when she read through my sketchbook that one morning, all i can now see are her invisible fingerprints on the page. I can’t see my words the same because there was a crime.. trespassing into my mind, even though i can’t let myself in. but I’ve changed my passcode and you’re too sloppy to realize that I know what you’re doing.
i’ve changed my locks and committed mental suicide with that key that I swallowed
still inside.

11:11-11:21pm a stream of consciousness
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