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Author Name: Freemysterious light 0 Comments
Date Added: December 18, 2018 12:12:30 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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Type: Free Verse
Category: Inspirational Add To Favorites | Text Only
This page in the book belongs to me
And it's so messy as you see,
With notes on margins 
And here's a dry maple leaf.
All the printed words so good,
All my scribble, unintelligible. 
This room in the house belongs to me.
It's all one big mess as you may see.
With books here and there,
And here's, this thing, and there's, that.
All the neat things so out of place
Amid this chaos of artful neglect and lack of order.
This place in my life belongs to you.
But I still have to free it up for you,
To clean a bit here and there,
Fix this here, and take that out of that there.
All the good feelings and intentions so appropriate
But what am I to do with all the insecurity, the lack of confidence,
The lack of time, lack of understanding, lack of trust,
Lack of my own knowledge of myself - 
Is it you that this place belongs to, or 
Did I mistake you for someone else?
And if I did, will you forgive me that?
If I did, will the one this place is meant for
Forgive me too, for leaving him out in the cold
And having tea with you?

Author's Notes:
I haven't written in ages. And it's not a good thing. Once you set "pen to paper" you realize - it's not that you can't write anymore; you don't remember how it feels to be in the process of writing. You remember vaguely if you try to write something, and realize that your true self is there, that person that used to write, all the time, every day or even all day, or once every few days - but you were always in that flow, it was never a conscious task, or part of your plan or routine that you will write this many lines on that given day. You just did. In between things. It just happened, naturally and without effort. Where does it go, how does one suddenly end up not having been that true self of theirs for years? I've talked to some who used to be here, and write, but now they don't anymore - and they don't miss it because they never felt defined by their writing. I am defined by writing; I am a translator, and I have been translating so much of others' writing that I probably hopped on the train of someone else's thought unknowingly - and one can't ride two trains, can they? I don't like this analogy, because then, I'm doomed. I don't want to be doomed for I am no dummy; like left and right exist to the left and the right sides of the center, so does my own writing exist on one side and my written interpretation of others' writing, - on the other, and I stand in the center, or, hey, perhaps this is like wearing different scarfs and hair accessories, or something?.. I don't know, I haven't decided yet - but I'm not inconvenienced, nor am I confused. Good evening.
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