Writing Funks With a Poem to Boot

Ever have those days when writing anything feels foreign? I know I've written a number of Hubs on this subject, but sometimes things should be revisited. Currently I am operating on the premise that writing anything is better than the turmoil that roils through my brain.

At times I fear the words won't come. They just kick back in their darkened brain-crannies and mock me like scornful children. The words of the heart, the ones I seek most, don't bother mocking - they sit idle, ignoring my overtures.

When you know messages, emotions and concepts live within you and culling them from your core dies painful, withering deaths, discouragement can overwhelm you. Then, when the words you bid forth actually spring to existence, you get something along the lines of the following poem.

Anything Left to Give?

Books and words and songs ago

Life meant more than meaningless hours

Supplanted by humdrum days

Every breath an opportunity for love, romance

Every step adventure driven

Every thought idealistic and fresh

Every emotion available in force

Now screens and sound bites and cacophony

Constrain the day from carefree whims

Gathered by fantasy’s dreams

Every breath a struggle for existence, survival

Every step a labored trudge

Every thought old and forlorn

Every emotion beaten down through time

Will to move forward

Begs a question better served unanswered ...

Anything left to give?

People don't often like to read depressive pieces. If something'sa real downer, many will skip over it for fear they may be infected. I understand that. In fact, I relate to it. Any time I write something NOT encouraging or uplifting or at least educational, I feel I may be doing the reader a disservice.

Yet, we all have these moments. Ok, some of us have them for days. Even weeks, but they do exist and we all need to know we're not alone wallowing in these emotions, right? Yeah, I hear voices telling me that "wallowing" is a choice and that I'm getting what I deserve. That sounds pretty judgemental, doesn't it?

Hey, these are MY voices telling me that! I've always been able to write my way out of these funks. Writing lifts me when I'm down and lends purpose to my grey days. I like what one writer said about the word 'grey' by the way. Many spell checkers will slap you with that red, squiggly underline that shouts, "You can't spell!" to the page when actually grey spelled with an 'ey' is just as correct as gray with an 'ay'. This particular writer said she chooses grey when she desires a particularly bleak landscape and gray when things are not quite so down.

Friends and family often do not understand a writer's funks. I find it best to deal with these moods in solitude, but often that very haven of solitude leads to more dark greys rather than the lighter grays.

Ah, but perky repartee will rise up soon and discard the funeral procession of sadness that crawls the page when I write like this so that concerned friends and family can breathe easier. Even now, having spilled these words across the screen like waxen mummies, I feel a resurgence of creativity and with that a spark of hope.

I place this somewhat dark and depressive prose online in the hopes that someone may relate, feel less alone and possibly step out from the shadows engulfing them and write. Write your heart, your soul, your dreams and place those grey days and grey thoughts on a shelf somewhere. You'll visit them again soon enough...