writing

Writers Block.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

with the words that used to flow
so fervently from my feeble mind,
lost in a realm of reason between
my thoughts and a blue inked pen,
are the whispers I couldn’t quite
grasp in order to speak out loud,
as though they were victims unto
themselves or casualties of my
own making, as I tried valiantly to
shake them out and make us both
bleed – twice for honesty, once for
a lie only I was caught believing.
down went the words onto paper
I had dreamt of and then ended
up recanting, as though no word
was good enough to share with
you my secrets and desires, and
so instead I sat staring at a blank
page, forgetting that this too was
part of my truth, I hadn’t yet shared.

LV Letters – Four

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I wrote down every letter
in curves and slants in a
constant repetition of the
words I longed to say to
you – the characterization
of every verse loaded with
a kiss, a promise, and a
meaning that would only
fall apart with punctuation.
Every letter was bleeding
in blue ink from my mind,
hoping for a chance to be
read by you, to be seen as
though you alone could see
into my heart and realize
what kept it beating – but
words are only words until
put into action, and it was
just one of the many love
letters, I could never send.

A New Story.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

We were alternating
writing chapters of our
story; yours were always
longer, while I was rushing
to get to the finish, trying to
figure out how it all ends, and
you were right – I was missing
all of the little things, details on
the page, not stopping to take a
breath with every little change
in verse. You said it was time
for us to rewrite our chapters
separately, and then you left.
I hadn’t any idea on how to
start, except to take a deep
breath, and to try detailing
out every memory that I
was missing out on in
your absence – filling
pages with chapters
of what I hoped
would turn into
a new middle,
not a fantasy
about our
ending.

Song.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I had been reciting
those verses of hope
in memory for so long
that lighting the starch
edges and setting them
aflame wasn’t enough
to rid my methods of
repeat; I had become
falling ashes in unison,
covering the truths I
wasn’t willing to learn
while still hearing the
constant repetition of
hope from the distance,
bouncing off the echoes
of our leftover debris.

24 to write.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

write.

I write this word a lot –
almost two dozen times a day.

It’s on sticky notes, my hand,
        it’s on my notebook –
        every single page –

it’s on my mind.

I write until I can’t remember,
sometimes I write to forget.

There are days when time sneaks away
from me, and then there are days
when I am part of the
        sixty six second minute.

That’s called fiction.

I can be in the right, or wrong.
And as long as I’m aware of that fact,
        I’m right, again. So no matter,
                I still win.

I have tried the whole rhyme thing,
but no good words rhyme with write.
        It’s too predictable, it’s too much.

I can’t commit to one poem about a word.
        It’s like a prison sentence.

That’s why I write it so much.
I space them, I slant them, I chant them,
and I rant about the whole process.
        because I can.

Creative Authority.
Artistic Liability.
Lack of editing, what have you.

I’m right. I’m still right.

And even when I’m wrong,
        write.

Two.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

One was lost
to forcible hands,
twisting and bending,
bleeding on paper
smothered in ink stains,
crinkles on the page.

Not fine-tuned enough –
not willing to be a draft,
or a cause to let settle,
simmer and rehashed
in two months’ time;
no, one was eager.

One was desperate
to start the year,
falling short without
rhymes, riddles,
or expedition.
A few words scattered
trying to make something
in this world of sonnets,
fictions, and dreams.

One was lost,
until two came along.