I know I have already posted this morning but this poem of mine has been plaguing my mind all morning so I thought I would share it without you all. It’s about my struggle with writing and my responsibility as a writer. I hope enjoy and please feel to comment.
Empty pages only I can write on
Given by the giver with no instructions
Yet with full responsibility to write
I choose why, when, how, and what to write
For my convenience I named the pages
Names that reflect my heroes and life
Soon after a page was in my hands
Neither the Giver nor the pages helped me
They came at intervals one after another
To be cherished, nourished and nurtured
For each to be known and attached to me
And to write on each and all of them
The pen to write with was not given
It occurred to me that my life was a pen
And the dink I use would have lasting imprint
The imprint would reflect my choice of ink
My ink, would it be love or hatred?
Would it be self sacrifice or selfishness?
Would it be contentment or whining?
What would I choose for the ink with lasting imprint?
Would the Giver give it on his pages?
Would I tell him that others also wrote on the pages?
And that I had no choice for the ink they used?
Why would he trust me so much with his property?
Writing on the pages is a hard noble vocation
I write on a page but sometimes nothing seems written
Or what’s written disappears after a while
Yet I must write. Not writing is writing of a kind
The writing starts with the first page, never to end
No holidays, no sick leave, no vacation
Writing on the pages cannot be left to chance
It cannot be left to others or to man made writers
Sometimes I question the Givers choice of the writer
Is the writer qualified to leave imprint on his pages?
How can he be? This is his first time with each page
Writing on the pages is an on the job training
I write, re-write, and write more for not writing is writing
My pages, Joseph, Miguel, and Ilaria
Need my writing and rewriting, for not writing is writing
Will God want what I write in their minds and hearts?
He who gives a book gives more than cloth, paper and ink.
He gives more than leather, parchment and words.
He reveals a foreword of this thoughts,
A dedication of his friendship, a page of his presence,
A chapter of himself, an index of his love.