Writing About Pain

When I was younger I could write pages and pages about the pain I was feeling. The passion would pour out of my hand and onto the page with only a pencil holding me back. The agony of being young and broken hearted gave way to lyrics, poems and any other form of cathartic scribblings on a page, leaving the gray of graphite all over my hands and the whites of the paper, the words would flow.

Since then, for years, I have only written when something really inspired it out of me. Putting my gift of words away trying to forget I can write, as if it would take away the pain from my life. Putting my soul in the cigar box of forget me nots waiting for a rainy day of reminiscing though my past, a day I hope will never come. I have gone so far as to deny my spirit even exists, so I don’t have to answer to it and ask for it’s forgiveness from my heart. The same heart that has thrown itself at countless tragedies hoping for a moment of love. When it has never quite learned to love itself.

Now hurt wells up inside of me with little release. I fear the epic verses hidden in the darkness of my self induced
torment. But the ache is there I know it is. It reminds me with unwanted tears at inopportune moments. Sometime I even wonder if I have carried a broke heart from every past life I could have lived, still trying to get it right.

I can write about not writing, I can even admit to the sorrow I feel. But my heart is still just too heavy to find the words for a lifetime of wretchedness. I believe we never let go of the pain in life, we just become stronger. Carrying it with us where ever we go, until something comes along and knocks us down, magnifying the misery to despair.

If I could only find the one true word from what I feel.


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