Let’s Write: A Poem

Posted On July 10, 2021

Frustration fills me as I stare at the blank page.

I know I can do this, I tell myself. I know I can do this.

Then why is it so hard?

Every day I take out pen and page, filled with a hard determination.

I’ll do it this time, I say. God help me, I will do this.

And then ten minutes later, there I am. So angry at myself.

Why can’t I be good enough?

Why can’t I live up to the standards I created for myself?

I call myself a writer, but really, who am I?

I haven’t written a word in days.

I feel like an empty cup. There is nothing left to pour.

My creativity is gone. Drained.

So I pack away my pen and page and tell myself that I’ll get back to it someday.

I’ll just take a little break, I say.

I’ll regroup. Pray. Read.

Think.

Ponder.

And then I’ll do it. I’ll write.

For days I feel lost without my pen and page.

I lug around books, my nose constantly buried inside them.

I pay attention. How do they do it? I think.

Though I tell myself that I am fine,

With every word that passes under my nose,

I feel guilt.

Shame.

Condemnation.

I will never be good enough, I tell myself.

This is who I am.

And I will never be able to change.

I don’t speak the thoughts, for they are too awful to bear.

And saying them out loud will make them real.

Is this who I am?

A failure?

One morning I wake with the sun, steal through quiet halls and make my way to the porch.

My socked feet are warm against the chilled air.

The hot mug in my hands warms me.

I see the steam rising lazily into the hazy, dewy air.

I close my eyes,

And open my heart to you.

Daddy, I say.

I need you.

No other words will come, so I let that one word linger in my mind.

Daddy.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Slow and quiet.

Something has changed. I feel an unrest. Something has changed.

What has changed?

I feel an unrest.

What has changed?

Then my tired mind puts a word to the unrest.

You’re here.

My father.

Yes, to those observing from afar, I’m just a girl.

A girl on a porch in the morning.

But they can’t see what I can.

And what I see takes my breath away.

It’s you.

And you’re looking at me.

Your eyes are so beautiful, and haunting and so, so full of love that I can’t look away.

I can’t look away, though my mind is screaming that I must, I must take my eyes from you.

I feel the tears welling up in my eyes,

Feel them, hot and slow, falling down my face.

I see your lips moving, and I hear your words.

You are just perfect for me.

And the next second,

Before I realize what is happening,

I fall into your arms.

Your arms, so strong.

So loving.

I fit perfectly in your embrace.

Write for me, you say.

I will give you the words.

Do not listen to what the world says. To them, you will never be enough.

Do not hold yourself up to their standards.

Trust me, daughter.

Write for me. I will give you the words.

Remember what I am telling you.

Remember.

Remember.

When I open my eyes, the world comes flooding into focus.

Did that really happen? I find myself asking.

There’s nobody here but me.

It was all in my head. Just another fantasy.

But the word he spoke resonates in my soul. I can’t ignore it, no matter how hard I try.

Remember.

I swallow, stand, and go indoors.

The rest of the day, I feel strange. Strangely peaceful.

Like somebody’s watching my back.

Like somebody knows me. And cares.

So that night, when I am in my room alone,

I look at my pen and page.

Remember.

I reach for them, my hands slow and unsure.

I take them and set them out before me, open the book to a fresh page.

Blank.

But where before I would have seen a wall,

I see a new beginning. A fresh start.

A door.

Remember.

I hold the pen in my hand, uncap it and see the inky end.

The familiar smell of ink and paper.

No frustration. I shove the frustration aside.

I have all the time in the world, I tell myself.

It’s just me and you, Daddy.

Let’s write.