I began writing when I was only 9 years old. It was always a way for me to escape to another place that was more pleasant than the reality around me. But even my writing back then showed the pain I was living through daily. I never wrote about seeing a double rainbow, about walking through a fragrant field of flowers,or any other type of happy thoughts. When happy thoughts occur, I never felt the need to express myself like I do when the 'dark' thoughts surface. So, forgive me if this blog is sometimes quite depressing, but that is partly what this blog is for.
Today I spent a little time reading some of the poems and other writing that I have accumulated over the years. Mostly because recently I've felt like giving up writing, because I have no belief in my writing abilities. I want to recapture that feeling I felt years ago when I truly believed that one day I would be a writer. I feel like I've lost that, and I want it back.
Here's a short poem I wrote when I was 12 years old. I remember being so excited when I had finished writing and re-writing the lines until I felt it was perfect. Of course it was never going to be perfect, but the satisfaction I felt when it was complete is what I want to feel once again.
The Little Doll
She sits alone on the bottom shelf
With rosy pink cheeks and curly blond hair.
Then nasty big hands picked her up
And only violent games did they play.
Twisting and pulling,
Body parts are easy to break.
But it doesn’t hurt,
Because dolls can’t cry.
They only suffer in silence
And die a little inside.