tell me everything
Writing is a religious act: it is an ordering, a reforming, a relearning and reloving of people and the world as they are and as they might be. A shaping which does not pass away like a day of typing or a day of teaching. The writing lasts: it goes about on its own in the world. People read it: react to it as to a person, a philosophy, a religion, a flower: they like it, or do not. It helps them, or it does not. It feels to intensify living: you give more, probe, ask, look, learn, and shape this: you get more: monsters, answers, color and form, knowledge. You do it for itself first. If it brings in money, how nice. You do not do it first for money. Money isn’t why you sit down at the typewriter. Not that you don’t want it. It is only too lovely when a profession pays for your bread and butter. With writing, it is maybe, maybe-not. How to live with such insecurity? With what is worst, the occasional lack or loss of faith in the writing itself? How to live with these things?
The worst thing, worse than all of them, would be to live with not writing. So how to live with the lesser devils and keep them lesser?
😈👿
– Sylvia Plath
I fit words together,
hoping they mean something.
Wanting them to make sense.
Allowing them emotion.
Willing to give them freely.
Creating a monument,
for a moment in time,
to share with the world.
These words become something tangible.
A thing,
a gift,
a piece of art.
A part of me,
stays with them.
Little pieces of me,
like shapes in a puzzle,
becoming
a picture,
a flower,
a song.
Small particles of my soul,
like a rose bud,
opening in my hand,
mesmerizes with it’s
beauty,
touch,
fragrance.
I write words on a page,
and feel love
spreading outward,
as the flowering happens,
as this thought blooms.
As words become thoughts about…
As the pieces become beautiful…
As the poem is born,
of water,
blood,
star dust
and becomes…
a small piece of me,
left behind on pages,
for others to find,
sharing a small moment,
never to be lost,
because it has been
recorded,
acknowledged,
emptied.
Gratitude makes room for new
miracles,
learning,
beauty,
as they find their new home
ready,
emptied,
expectant.
Waiting for more
truth,
goodness,
love,
to flow and enter in.
There is always more,
and more than enough.
The heart that gives gathers,
but never tries to hold anything hostage.
Love,
giving,
pretty much everything,
about life,
only works when we allow it,
all of it,
every sacred cow,
every spec of mud,
to be free
🔆
Amy Lloyd
life: acoustic & amplified 