A friend from college, Jen (check out her new book, A Note on the Door) , shared today that she will write a poem a day for the next month. She asked if anyone would join. I said yes. What you (whomever you happen to be) read below is a poem about my hesitancy and also this hasty decision. It is fresh and barely edited. And so these posts will continue to be in this season. Bear with me.
I have journals
unlined, lined up on shelves.
All told, nearly as many
as I have books
(and I have many books).
As many pages ripped out
as still secure in the bindings,
though less so as years pass
and I grow more
comfortable with my mistakes.
I have learned to write
for myself
and for one other
who knows each word
before ink hits page.
And so, you see,
less pages in my waste paper bin.
Writing for that One
is easy.
I know now that
nothing offends Him
so long as I am willing to share,
He is willing to read.
But, my self
this is another matter indeed.
I still look with loathing
and longing
on most of my words.
So many drafts.
It is not self-hatred,
nor even (most times)
standard perfectionism.
It is the feeling, the desire
the unbearable compulsion to
tell the whole story
each time.
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