Bereft!

And poetry, the rhymes and rhythm, the effervescence of imagery, what happened to poetry?

My earliest memory of my writings was at age 12. I would carry my little notebook around, writing, playing with words. I did not much think myself a poet. I would say I am a lover of words, of imagery. Oh! How wonderful when one can create a piece so beautiful it pulls at your heartstrings!

I neither thought myself a writer. I am a thinker whose thoughts tend to overflow and when my mind can’t hold them any longer, I am forced to slow it down by writing. Thoughts have a pace: frantic. Writing forces thoughts to float, ponder, bask and wait.

I love poetry. Sadly, we parted ways over a decade ago. The child in me, the romantic in me felt compelled by to write, to listen and read. But in the end, the words were nails that pinned me to sadness, to misery. Bereft of dreams and hope, a forlorn soul I buried it. The muse often seeks to frolic about. I miss her sometimes and then I remember, hope doesn’t live here anymore.

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