NEVER WILTING

So you think

You have a great idea

For a story.

You see a movie

Or read a book;

And the story is a cruel,

But strangely welcome,

Reminder of something similar

That you have considered,

Or, worse, something that you

Have long ago lived through.

It is but a short step

From that realization

To the inspiration

That leads you to write.

There is something you know well.

Something from your distant past.

An incident that affected

Your whole approach to life.

A person never forgotten.

A few moments

That deserved to be driven

To their logical conclusion –

Whatever that was!

And, yet, perhaps there is

An illogical conclusion

That is also worthy

Of exploration.

So, you decide

To explore.

The effort sucks your insides out.

Each sentence draws you further

Into a hole that has no exit.

Your body aches

And your mind reels

As though it has been bludgeoned

Into insensibility.

Your emotions are worse than stretched;

They are drawn so tight

That the slightest irritation

Makes you appear to be insane.

You become what you are writing.

The inevitable character

Based partly on you is alive

And you cannot help

But act out his longings.

So you long for the objects

That he desires

Even though you know

That they are beyond

Your pathetic reach.

The places you describe

Become the places

You want to inhabit.

They crawl out of the scenes

You see each day

And they torment you

With background music

Composed by the devil.

You slowly go mad.

But at some point

You finish

And you can write no more.

At some point

You ask someone else

To read what you have extracted

From your very soul.

And they read;

And they offer,

With the best of intentions,

A few platitudes …

If you are lucky!

The pity of it all

Is that any platitudes

Are so much more palatable

Than the cold reject notes

That come all too quickly.

So you are left to wonder

Where you went wrong.

You are left to wonder

Why you are desolate

Even though

You have achieved so much more

Than most people ever attempt.

No answers come

And the few who know of your folly

Can only think

‘I should have told him so.’

But you keep trying

To prove them wrong.