Didn't You Used To Write?

Didn't I? Didn't I used to let it flow? Let the words fall out of my brain like so many rocks tumbling down a hillside? Couldn't I tell a story? Turn the events of my life into a raucous party anyone could attend? Document the colorful moments that made my world glitter like a rhinestone costume broach bought at the drugstore for five dollars and eighty nine cents? Has the shine worn off my thoughts? Didn't I love to make people laugh? Or is it that I'm no longer amused? Haven't I poured pain festering in my soul for years from the pitcher of my heart into tall glasses and serve it on a tray?  Have I not been told the memories prompted others to rim the glasses with salty tears garnishing the margarita of my mind? Is it that I no longer feel anything at all? Or most important, have I relinquished the title of;  Her Metaphor Majesty, Ruler of Run On Sentences, Admiral of  Adjectives and Baroness of Bad Poetry? Am I tired of trying to remember punctuation? When I was young I would write pages and pages by hand until the writers bump on my finger became a weeping blister that disfigured my top knuckle. I slightly adjusted the angle of my pen and wrote on. I flowed through my thoughts without stopping for even a comma. Punctuation just got in my way. I would turn in papers in class, returned measled with red circles filled in with exclamations and question marks. At the bottom would be the commendation on the writing itself. The B- for grammar never concerned me. After all, they filled in the blanks for me, how convenient. I needn't concern myself and who cared about the grade because the writing was what I craved. The large letter at the top of the page was merely a blot on the paper. They were not part of my words. Even the ones I made up-like measled.
Did I lose my bravado along the way? Begin to worry that I didn't measure up? Let fear of criticism get in the way of my creativity? When did I start to list life like facts on a test for a boring history lesson? I know I'm not an exceptional writer. My mind is like a shelf full of 'Chicken Soup' paperbacks. Does that really matter?

Maybe it is all time. Time needed to digest, we'll skip the obvious metaphor of the conclusion to that : ) Maybe it's the time that has been stolen from me. There is so little left lately. Untold stories lying neglected on a counter. I am so full of words. But many aren't ripe yet. Sitting green and hard in the bowl of my cranium, I need some bananas to push them along. Get them soft and juicy. Ready to bite into. Time is my enemy. In so many ways. But I know-in time-it will be my friend again. When it has filled enough space it will once again my thoughts will overflow with words spilling through my hands. Maybe one day even expand enough to pop me out of my cocoon of self doubt and as it always has,

 Leave a big old A+ on my soul.

Long ago I posted this poem on my other blog.

I wish I had time
To write all day
Without all the life
That gets in the way
So full of thoughts
I can't contain
Within this limited
Human brain
Collected and stored
For decades withheld
The stories and feelings
Beginning to meld
Into a tiny atom called me
That explodes in time
As my history
And without all the life
That gets in the way
The page remains blank
What would I say?
No thoughts to share
No creative sparks
Just an essay composed
In question marks

Ah. Still true.

 I had one hell of a year last year. Six months later I know that most of those stories will never be comedies. But I'm sure, much will.  No matter what life brings, I know I'll find much to keep me amused. And I feel. I am a great locker of feelings. It's how I cope. I sooth them with a cup of hot tea. Bury them in books. Blow them out with cigarette smoke...yeah I know...Shut Up...but anyway...
When the timer goes off, I never know when that'll be, but the locker will open and I'll pull them out to take a look. And if you know me, you know. That's ok. And as you see from above, I will Never Relinquish My Title. Hell No ; )..or winky faces...


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