Inspired?

It is odd. I have never read a book and felt the desire to write for the sake of giving the same effect as a book gave me. And then I read a question asking such a question. And oddly while reading The Man From St. Petersburg that is exactly what I felt: the urge to write. It wasn’t inspiration for that moment; it wasn’t the desire to write for change. It was the desire to write a story that would comfort the reader, create a refuge.

I have for the last few weeks since my last post been in search of myself and the side of me which will allow me to write stories again. The progress is slow and wispy, but it is there, and breathing softly. And I do believe that Ken Follet’s book has done something wonderful to me by giving me a desire to write.

That said…Here’s a bit of poetry for you:

She sat waiting for him to speak
Waiting for his words to come undone
Waiting for his mind to be unravelled
And released into the air
So that she could read the pain
Catch the hidden and hid them for herself
She sat waiting on the edge of her seat
Waiting for him to speak
Waiting for him
She sat

He said
Nothing this world ever offers is pure
Nothing is ever kind
Nothing is ever gentle
or truly sweet
Everything is horrid
Everything is cruel
Everything is bloody with money stuck to its palms
Crumpled and discarded though it ought to be
But tightly held are the they the dirty, filthy, grimy and wet with the pain of souls long broken

She sat waiting for more
And there was none
So she begged
Trust me, and tell me your secrets, your fears, your aches, your pains
Trust me won’t you
Share who you are with me

I am nobody
I have no secrets
I have no pains
I have no fears
I have no aches
No wounds have I to heal
Tell me yours
That story in your bosom
Tell it to me
He sighed

She sat
The stories in my bosom are not my own
For my story has been lost
My years are now a farce as I have no memory of them
My memories are all of common whores and clergymen
The scars I wear (litle girls and torn skirt hems) don’t belong to me
My aches are not my own
I feel nothing for myself
I feel nothing but cold and fear
Of being me
Without you and the stories you have to tell
Stories which will become my own
Trust me, and tell me your secrets, your fears, your aches, your pains
Share who you are with me
So that I can be you too

She sat waiting for him to speak

He said…

See you next week.

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