Black Nights, And Words We Write

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Do you ever just get exhausted from being dark and in gloom and doom all of the time? I’ve noticed a pattern lately, and it reflects in every expression that comes forth from my spirit. The way that I write, the facial expressions I make, and even the way I view others. Still, I can’t seem to break away from it. It’s as though it is a part of my body. A part of me. Here’s the thing though, just because I write this way, or view things in a gloom setting, doesn’t mean I’m always feeling that way, or living with the lights off. I’ve just never really been able to view things or people without seeing some darkness.

I guess it’s like a little girl who loves their favorite doll. They won’t go anywhere without it. I am the same with my darkness.

I think it’s beautiful. Exquisitely divided and different from how others see things, and that is really special when you can offer up another dimension of vision for others. I love when other’s views and expressions do that for me as well. Like reading the most adventurous of books, closing your eyes, and escaping there into its pages.

If you can open yourself up to seeing things from someone else’s viewpoint, oh the places you can go without ever needing to move.

So, I say that to say, sometimes we, as writers, go through long periods of time where a lot of our writing and thoughts seem to breed from the same place. Sometimes, it’s just who you are as a writer in a season, and sometimes, it’s just who you are.

Every reason for it is freedom, purpose, individuality, and it is ok.

Dress of Pain (5-17-18)

silhouette of man standing on grass field during night time
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Smile my dear, they say

As she peels her eyes open to another day.

Not girly, but her dress of pain,

flows around and around, and the anchors,

her train.

Bouncing around, arms in the air,

letting it all go,

rain falling on her face, going with the flow.

Waters full of chemicals, burning her skin, 

and people trying to reach and help her,

but she’s not letting them in.

Her body has turned against her,

sores and wounds lie open, and it bleeds

infected memories, filling her soul with

the blood of her past and until its emptied,

she’ll never truly be free.

Look at the crown of lovely, they place on her soft hair.

Try and cover the ugly.

Paint it up, brush it down, it just doesn’t seem fair.

Stop wishing she would come around, and

leave her where she lays.

She’ll either get up or die,

And it may not be today.

So, go on, move forward spinning,

she dances to that music too;

An anthem of the chaos,

that has always rang true.

Spinning round and round, in this dress of pain….