A Poem for Your Troubles

You lived your little life in the clouds
While I drowned in oceans of sorrow
You shine so brightly in all the crowds 
I couldn’t see another tomorrow

You compared me to Paris in the spring 
But you’d never been to Paris before
I made you promise never to sing
But all you could ever do was adore

me. And cherish all my hideous flaws 
While I could only critique your fault.
You’d wait forever for my heart to thaw
But I never told you it was basalt

I drowned you and you kept me afloat 
But I never loved you so I left you this note.

Dear Reader

 

My name is Lottie and I am a writer.

The ticking of my mind never stills at it’s overlooking presence. It looms around my every movement begging me to push out the mumbling in my brain. To spill onto a blank canvas and to release the tension from within. Bubbferociouslyously on the page it engraves itself onto the paper and sparks brightly until the light dies and so does the thought. Cathartic. Writing to me is my therapy. I feel a spark of creativity within me and through that I feel emotions. Melancholy whims. Ecstatic frustrations. Burrowing in my mind reminding me to deal with the build up of emotion soon.

An artist floats above the rest of society, not in a pretentious or powerful way, but so they can breathe in the fresh scent of human emotion. To write you must expierence. And to be a good writer you must relate in some way to the human soul. You need to teach, not just entertain, you need spark motivation, not just provoke feeling, you need to fufill the dreams within your mind, not just please the reader. A writers job is to create something other worldly, while living the same life as everyone else.

Writing is as easy as it seems. Spill my soul and hope it sounds pretty and sometimes it does and sometimes it sounds like I did exactly that. The craft of writing hasn’t really changed in my mind over the past months, but only that it seems to much more accessible in my brain.

Back in August, when the summer air was simmering into the autumn wind, I only thought of my writing as within myself. I continued bubble. I would write my short stories. My short fictional stories. Character as far away from my own life as I could get. But now, as the icy air corrupts my lungs and the leaves are dying, I can feel myself bubble with new potential I never knew resided within me. I don’t have to write my little short stories anymore. I can write a poem, or script or maybe even about my own life. I can make the most boring of memories beautiful. I used to have no self confidence in my far away words and now I would like to pick them apart and appreciate their inner beauty. Redraft.

I look to write something that changes a life. The way that book changed mine, or that album, or that comic, or that person. Not in the biggest of ways, but I want to make someone forget their own troubles for a moment, I wanna inspire the young, comfort the old, make the sad laugh, make the happy contemplate, make my own mind twist in new ways. I want to puncture the stereotypes and help fill the new world with lively air that spurs a generation.

That is what literature must do. It must educate the lost. Guide the hopeless. Move the unemotional. It must push agaisnt everything we ever new, but remind us of home. It must tell us of the lives past are own, of the troubles of those on the other side of the world and the hidden secrets of our next door neighbours.

Writing in my mind was once unreachable. Today it is a tumbling need. Maybe we can all do it.