Life is story. All of us are living a story. And often the shortest distance from truth to the human heart is through story.
Writing may or may not be your thing. I believe I have the heart of a writer. I have dreams of being a writer, but the guts to dig in there and do it day after day after day are lacking.
But one thing I know.
Whether or not I ever write much of consequence, or have any kind of earthly success in this pursuit, I want to be real. I want to be vulnerable. I want to show my true colors and let people see that I struggle, really struggle....a lot! Because Ted says that when people read a story, they don't want words. They want blood on the page. Everyone is looking for a living, breathing connection with another soul. A soul who maybe struggles a lot like them. A soul who is hitting walls and constantly trying to discover who they are and work through the deep dark of their story to find a way over those walls.
Because maybe, as I wrestle to discover and interpret my story, and I leave blood on the page--maybe my blood will mingle with yours. Maybe your soul will connect with mine. And maybe as I struggle and seek and begin to find the way over my wall, it might just help you a little bit to find the way over yours.
And that's what I want my writing to create. Whether I write ten thousand pages or only ten.
So consider the following lines a bit of my blood on the page.
(An original composition, raw and unfiltered)
How many times will I fall on my knees again
After I've tried for the one-millionth time to create
What I still haven't tasted?
How many days will the flame within
Because I insist there's something better
I would rather hold?
How many nights will I shut out the light
Like my reborn identity curled up and died
Trying to drown the Voice calling inside
Gulping the poison like one desperate
To end a life?
How many years will I hang myself in chains
Letting addiction take me again
The spark of Life shattering into shards of me
The voice of Truth strangled,
How many moments will I cry for mercy
Begging to want what I need so desperately
Grasping for the hem of what I cannot feel nor see
Searching for fire to consume the last of me?
How many prayers will I breathe
Wondering if wasted breath is all they'll ever be?
How many days will I embrace unbelief
Desecrate the holy place and put
My truest Love to grief
I am blind, though I see?
How many times will I cower on the floor
Bound to an idol I love, though I abhor
Never satisfied, always promising more
Then turning deaf ears to my impassioned implore?
O my soul, how many more days, how many more nights
How much life will be waste
Spurning purest pleasure
For the spectres that I chase?
Who who save me, set me free
From the pit where I dove headlong
Rip the scales till awakened heart bleeds
Who will sing me a louder siren song?
Cut the head off the serpent
Beat the fool's gold into dust
Ignite the flame that cannot be spent
Tear out the fangs of ingrown lust?
Who will conquer, who will reign
Will I welcome the return of the King?
Will I feast, and know my fill?
Will my mad mind be finally still?
Will the demons I madly courted
be conquered foes, finally thwarted?
Will I stand a perfect bride
The Fountain of Desire at my side
Fully and forever satisfied?
Lover, save me, or I die!