I have always said that this upcoming year is the year I was going to write. But it always felt like a precipice that I was standing on the edge of, waiting for the right wind-conditions or mood or equipment.
Yesterday, we had a slam poet come to our professional development session. She challenged us to create a poem in 3 minutes that must include the words applesauce, eavesdrop, is, and rugburn. It also had to make everyone cry.
I thought that writing would be like building carefully with blocks, choosing the right word, being meticulous and slow. In this case, it was like the floodgates opened and a river poured out, and I was grabbing words out of the flow like precious treasures, and batting away others as they passed by.
This is what I wrote:
I stare out the kitchen window at the space where my heart once was.
Where the roots once gripped and fed,
where the trunk stood tall,
where the fruit - tart and sweet like applesauce - ripened,
where the branches reached.
The leaves eavesdropped on my dreams.
Now there is a space. A hole. A vacuum where life once was,
leaving streaks of pain like a rugburn on my soul.
Pretty good for 3 minutes. I was proud of it. And it made me cry.
So I wrote. I broke the seal without really thinking about it. It wasn't a bit moment, or a big production, just born out of necessity in a noisy room in 3 minutes.
So here I am. A writer.
I did realize something as I sobbed, standing and reading the poem out-loud. I think there is something wrong with me, or something that needs expressing. Something unaddressed. I feel like I am an open person, but whenever it comes time to express something true, it feels like my chest breaks open like an egg and I cry. I wonder if I am more closed than I think I am, tamping down feelings that need expressing until they scream through any crack like steam escaping.
Maybe writing won't be like building a masterpiece, but like letting the words flow out. Unblocking the dam and seeing what happens.
When the truth comes out, I crack open like an egg.
My sternum shatters like shell and scatters
and golden goo, a mess of expression, previously unaddressed,
pours out of me with the viscosity of snot.
My truth needs airholes
a doggy door
a silk road for the soul
I hate to break so easily.
