Writing

I feel like I should write something, but I don't know what. I have so much to say and write, but I just can't think of anything. There are times when words flow from my pen, when prose is naturally ushered into being from my soul, but not now. Not lately, it seems. I can write and I can communicate a subject, but the passion and persuasion of which language is capable yet eludes me.

I desire to have a mastery over words, a command of language such that I can express my thoughts and convey my feelings. Oh if I could speak, if I could write what I mean, what I intend. Rather, it is poorly chosen and ill fitting words that spew forth, if any come at all. Too often I leave things unsaid. Too often I leave ideas unwritten.



The sonnet of my soul has yet to be penned, the will of my mind enrobed in ink.
With what lacking modes must my heart employ, my mind to speak.
Truth begs to be shared, and so easily slips, elusive as the evening sun
But I will not falter by the way til I've said my part, until I'm done.

Trudging on through mirey pages of what once was and what may be,
Echoes of the shadowed past illuminate a part of me.
Though now I see, yet now it's gone, this whispered thought to stare
Blankly now I search for what might take me past its familiar air.

An edge, a piece of my own words show in a stranger's written ode
A portion that I wish I wrote, through this man already told
Another, and yet more, come to view, their voices rushing fast
Saying things that should be said, the wisdom of the past.

Yet harmony is incomplete while all but one raise the strain
This music is meant for all to hear, for all to drop as rain.
Though incomplete my sonnet be, though muddled are my words
I write, I speak, I sing, I shout- for my voice will be heard.

-Bryan Hardy