Where is my red?
I am wounded and I have lost my color
When did life leave me?
Why did red turn to grey?
I found red once
Stray, lost in wintery innocence
I was surprised
And I wanted to hide-
From red, or from myself
I am unsure
Sometimes I see this life-color
And it challenges me to be free
I think I will try
To remember
Where I last saw her
With smiles and love and beauty
A heart full of red
A world full of color
Most
days I do not know what to write or what to say. My husband says that I am scared to look in
my heart. That it is like peeking under
a rock and then running away. I think I
agree with him. I am afraid, afraid that
if I look, nothing will be there. I have
always said there are two kinds of people in the world: those who create art
and those who appreciate art. I have
always called myself the latter but it is the artist I wish to be. They say in order to create you must first be
willing to do so poorly. I feel like I
can’t do that. Or won’t. I want to create. I think creating is beautiful. Therefore whatever it is I might create
should be perfect. But this is all
wrong. I have to learn to wander and
linger inside my soul. I have to listen fiercely
to the tiniest of whispers inside myself.
I need to stop relying on feelings—as in the need to FEEL creative
before picking up a pen. I need to
immerse myself. I need to try and try and try again. I read this recently: When do
you make the time? They say, and it’s impossible not to. Art is oxygen is faith is sanctuary. This is how I want to be
with my writing. I want to have a voice. I choose to exercise this voice. I have to because there is no other way.
