I was working less and thought
that rather than twiddle my thumbs
I would twiddle my fingers and
write on a blog or two.
I wanted to write with depth. I didn’t.
I wanted to write in an engaging way. I couldn’t.
The void was a problem so I
signed up for a writing class.
The class pointed me to my past, but
I couldn’t remember much at all to write.
And then I remembered raw pain and
I simply refused to write.
Counseling. Meditation. I thought I was fixed.
But still no deep or grand ideas
were being shoved through my willing fingers
to enlighten or enliven any page.
As I sat and pondered what to write,
a realization was lurking in my gut,
then disturbing my innards as it
took months to rise to my unwilling brain.
As the awareness floated up through me
I kept the miserable thought from infecting my soul.
For when I grasped reality I had to admit
I just didn’t have much intellectual depth.
It wasn’t just that my writing was perfunctory,
it was that my life was perfunctory.
Overcommitted, too obligated, too painful, too private,
to reach for ideas and elaborate.
Oh God, rout out my soul?
That is all I have to write about?
This could be a real problem.