If I write to expel the pain of life, I must not be the author.
I do not empower negative to remain; provoke the mind to agonize and suffer.
If writer’s write of joy and life and things of good and surreal,
Then those are words I’ll put upon a page; they are exclusively my will.
If confusion is what brings pen and paper out, then lots of writing I shall do.
Because if my mind does not accept the pain then confusion must riddle it too.
Why else would I feel uneasy and unsure? Frustration blocking out sun and light.
A true outpouring blossoms only when my honesty makes it right.
When it spills until there is no more, an untethering is felt.
But what of those who cannot unfurl the words? In what way is sadness dealt?
Perhaps their mind must keep it all bound up to be defined in its own time.
But all wrapped up~ignored, it takes them no further than that confusion I sometimes find.
If I am to move beyond these emotions wrapped on twigs: branched and unmovable from here to there,
I must let good things blossom forth and follow: allow the heaven scent of goodness, sweet and pure.
I cannot write of things felt or carried when a heavy armor holds secure.
It is myself I injure by holding onto self-doubt and fear.
If I open wide my thoughts; allow the pain to seep,
I can acknowledge the love I know is there; the love that hurt and sorrow has buried deep.
I must commit to allow time to follow this unchartered, winding slope,
A promise that will widen and soar, bringing abundant joy and hope.
For a soul that remains bound that tight is sure to feel it bleed.
Its only comfort will be found when we understand its need.
It can be bandaged as it heals and internal understanding makes its pleas,
but I can never underestimate the beauty of my own release.
I’ll expel it just as it is; no sugar-coated, perfected stance.
I must allow myself this gift; no one else can grant me this chance.
For this reason I’ll allow it to be: this sorrow inside of me.
The writing will be just as it must: from the me even I have yet to understand and see.
Backstory: As I began the process of keeping a writing journal, I found an instant holding back. In order to write, and give myself permission to write, I hoped that seeing it for myself on paper, black and white, might provoke me to realize this road block I’m putting up for myself. A writing to allow writing:a digging into my mind’s creases to validate the importance of what lies there. This poem is what was found within the tiniest fold.