Ripped pages littered on the floor,
The world banished beyond the closed door.
A pen scratching furiously over pages white,
An anguished whine; the words don’t feel right.
‘I give up!’ she screamed at the wall,
‘Every single day, I pour out my soul,
And what do I get in return from you?
Nothing, nothing, no matter what I do.
‘I’m bleeding here, can’t you see the crack?
I’m seeking the rainbow, and all you give me is black?
This darkness, this gloom, I don’t want these.
I want roses, the moon, the sky, the breeze.
‘So there. I tried. Tell everyone I did.
A hermit I became, from everyone I hid.
But I can’t anymore. I can’t take this.
I’m done. This hollowness I won’t ever miss.’
She threw open the window, banged open the door,
And watched, entranced at the streaks on the floor,
Sunlight, long denied had found its way,
Through the very cracks she’d kept at bay.
And at that moment, she made the connection.
That what made her a writer was not perfection.
The cracks and her flaws, the anguish, the pain
The rips and tears, the broken, the stained
Was what made her, her; she couldn’t deny.
It wouldn’t always be roses, or birds in the sky.
She embraced the dark, hugged close the black.
For she knew light would always flood though the crack.
Image courtesy the very talented Sameer Gurung who happily let me use his photo on this post. Well, who am I kidding? His photo is what inspired me to write this poem in the first place.