The weary silence.
My quiet breaths.
I close my eyes as tears wither down my cheeks, searching for the calling within my soul, seeking out God from beyond.
Tension hides within the blood in my arms, and then tightness strikes my temple.
I place my hand against it, putting pressure against the wound. If it bled, I could not feel it. If it throbbed, I could not touch it.
But I need it. I’m begging for it to come to me; to let the creative tide flow through my oxygenated veins and pulsate my chest. I’m pleading for the connection, for my gift to tremble along my fingertips and type out the narrative of an artist’s starvation.
I vacant my mind; I attempt to.
Look!
So many unfinished stories untouched. So many endings unwritten. So much sadness within a page. So much rage within a sentence. So much intimacy within its diction.
None of which are me.
I had asked her to come back to me, told my love to seek me, to hold me, to drench her life into my hands and let me care for her.
Yet, all of these stories still in space and time. All of them scream out a child’s dream my enemy has replaced with hopelessness and disease, with a corpse’s body on the rise.
The weary silence.
My quiet breaths.
God then whispers to me, “Hold on. Keep typing. Keep going. Live. Be. I am here.”
He is here. He must be.
Because I cry and begin to write. Because I cry and begin to breathe life; poetry.
“Please Lord,” I plead among the music in my ears. “I don’t want to waste it.”
This gift…I don’t want to forget.
