I have always known that words have power
to disappoint and even threaten.
They so often offend and injure, colliding with others
of life together in this messy place.
And words heal,
offered as a rich confession that brings one to the edge of truth
and back again to our plain old lives.
Sometimes it’s a sweet and holy thing,
words. The offering.
If I didn’t choose to put pen to paper, finger to keyboard?
What if, what then? If I didn’t fight to get
this very moment down through distractions, through issues and problems of my day.
What if I stopped fighting for these words?
Driving along, I feel that anxious gnawing in my stomach, again.
I am full of self-loathing, doubt and fear. I hate this weakness, but I am questioning every word put down,
wondering how and why.
Why try so hard?
But then I know.
I would write even if no one tells me I’m good.
Then it’s said to me: “you’re good” and I don’t believe. Or I wonder,
is this enough?
These thoughts, do they change
This not merely about purpose.
It’s not simply about being good or even great at this craft.
I don’t know why I write, except that I was made for this.
Each thought, scratched out on a piece of tattered envelope is an offering.
Each confession a piece of me. My flesh, my hopes, my mind
are all there on the page. I write.
This is what I was made to do.
And I will have to leave the rest up you.
Something else I wrote on the negative power of our words, Hatred’s Sweet Kiss.