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I don’t know if it is because writing is too important to me or too unimportant that I can’t seem to make headway. If it is so important, why am I the one doing the writing – as imperfect as I am compared to so many other wonderful writers? But then, maybe a writer shouldn’t be too proud and confident – we are the channel after all, the words can speak for themselves. Anyway I couldn’t sleep last night as I was in some kind of awake-dream state so after an hour or so I got up, had a long shower, made a cup of tea, and wrote this poem.


Midnight and the Reluctant Writer

In dark of night with stealth they came
A thousand voices called my name
Persistent, yet in quiet tones
They spoke of lives left bleeding, broken,
Sutured before their Truth was spoken.

And while I laid in search of sleep
The stories rose and murmured deep –
Wandering their own purgatories,
Inhabitable houses in cities bare
Ghostly echoes hanging in the stale and sickly air.

I am the torturer and tortured.
These stories were to me escorted,
And before my clumsy hands could hold
Were dropped in pieces on the ground.
And then the fog came swirling round

If I had my choice they’d move away
And seek more fertile ground to play
Yet, still they dwell and torture, taunt
This mind trod heavily by worry and care
Imperfect and frail, uninventive and bare.

I fear there is no casting off and drifting out to sea
These ghosts of stories past will jeer and follow free
Until I find their resting places, my fate is firmly set.
Imperfect I am, as are my weapons
Yet the writer does not choose, is given.

© Julia Kaylock, April 2017

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