Writing a book is very easy. Just give up your life, strip off all your lies, lash yourself to a rock, push yourself until you think you’re going to die, ignore people when they say nothing you write is worth reading, and then publish it and beg people to buy it. Easy. – David Groves
Let me write with blood stamped throughout it -
The blood of hidden memories.
The blood of my true self.
The red of my own heart-cries
Scribbled on each stained page
And fingerprinted with honesty.
Words twisting and dancing
From experience, friendships, sorrows-
Marked out from my heart...
Let my words capture that, even to some degree.
It doesn't come easy.
It isn't without aches...
There are other words I can write
To perhaps still appease the longing to share.
Glossy colors flow,
Painting soft shades of light
That can often mask the reality.
They dance across the shadows,
And while they are not wrong,
They are not quite right either.
They don't cry from the depths of my heart
The same way heart-prints do.
Yet, there are days when the airy colored tendrils
Seem the safer things to write.
Whispers all around me call to be written.
I hear the words that sing to be free.
Through the brambles, through the fire,
Through the long nights,
And quiet loneliness
They cry out.
Deep inside me, they well up
To leak over everything I touch.
I clench my hands.
It can hurt to let those words spill over,
Watching them seep into my colored paper
And tint everything in their wake...
They sink and weigh heavily on my heart;
I believe many of them echo those around me.
It hurts to write the cries of a heart in pain -
To write the cries of my own pain.
Ah, but it's worth it in the end, I think.
When I reach out my hand,
Letting myself escape within my writing
To sprinkle heart-prints over everything I share,
I am truly me.
Copyright © 2013 Ophelia M. Flowers