Right…where to begin? You see, that’s generally my problem. I have absolutely no idea what to write about.
I would like to think that ideas come out of empty space – that I could look around and pull stories out of everything that I see, then weave prose as elegant as that of a master novel. But of course, it’s not that easy, as I’m sure many will know.
For me, there are ideas, and I’m sure everybody does have these basic urges to speak their mind, but…there’s something in the way, a kind of anxiety about how society will receive your words. Long have I tugged at this problem, and for months, it has kept me from posting here, but now, I have come to realise…so what? So what if a few others criticize or come down upon your work? That’s the nature of writing…that’s the nature of art. No…that’s the nature of everything. We build upon our failures, so we should never be afraid to fail.
And that’s why I write these words now, to realise that anxiety is penniless and that jumping in head first is what makes all the difference. So I encourage you, ladies and gents, don’t hold back. If there’s something you want to do or something you want to say, go for it – wisely, of course. Time waits for no one, so you should catch a ride when you can.
In the spirit of this matter, I have composed a poem – my first poem ever on public eyes. “Is it good enough?” runs constantly through my mind…and “What if they don’t like it?” follows shortly behind. But I will post it as it is and you can say of it what you will. Sincerely, though, I do hope you enjoy.
The words that I speak
Right here and now
Are the first to have come from me.
Although I can say
In a delicate way
That ideas are a mystery.
Though time and time I have pondered and thought
For hours and days in myriad frays
The clouds, they hover and hover they do
But rain they not
Despite how hard you chew
I wondered, perhaps, it’s time to run home
But “no” he says, with his vicious bite
There’s much to be gained if you stay here and write.
So here you go my fellows and friends
My beginnings laid bare
May they not be my ends.
And I know that I’m mere and lay and crude
In my pen’s clumsy sway
But with time and tears and bountiful years
Will my errors wither away.