I step back from time to time, back to when my pencil first echoed my soul on paper. I would surrender words, unashamed and transparent; abandoned to no one; yet offered to everything outside of my skin. I forced myself to never use my eraser. I simply wanted the words to lay unshattered. I would either draw a line through the word or let it live. There’s a “connectedness” or kinship between word and spirit.
I would sit and wait for the next word to come. I would literally wait for “one” word, the next word of the poem or lyric to come to my mind. I would not write until it had passed through my heart and soul and onto the paper. To this day I never rewrite anything. If the next word does not come then I simply pause or stop writing.
I usually write songs in a single, forty-five minute period. Writing poems can take days or even months; mainly because I shove them aside and forget about them. Life does not give me the opportunity to wait long enough. My poetry runs deeper through me than my lyrics; yet, I write them both with intention. Writing poetry exhausts me and I rarely share my poems.
Why do I share this? I share this to remind myself that I don’t require approval. Your judgment only imprison’s you. Sadly, as I get older I find myself “erasing” words to make them “fit” into the world’s square round hole. A heaviness comes over me as I acknowledge this yielding surrender to the common.
I’ll be forty-five this year. I’m halfway there and I’m tired. I don’t want to sing anymore. I want to breathe through the song; live and die in the song. Anyone can sing a song; I want to surrender to the song.
What’s interesting to me, as I read back through this, is that I live and speak in the same manner. I rarely rush my words or thoughts. I’ll take as long as I need to process feelings or decisions, even at the expense of other’s anticipation. Which is completely opposite to my “business” world. At work I make decisions immediately. Apparently my artistic side is different. I won’t share beyond the moment of my heart.
But i will share this . . . I cut myself the other day. I watched my blood run from my finger and drip to the floor. Nothing stopped it. Society can’t teach me how to bleed. I write and sing because . . . I write and sing.