When push comes to shove

Why am I not writing you ask? Well, you see, it probably has a lot to do with writer’s block, and as you can probably tell, it happens A LOT! I guess you could say I lose the motivation. I go in and out of bouts of laziness or I have depression. The reason probably has a lot to do with all of the above, but I also think it has a lot to do with self doubt.

One of the reasons why I started this blog was to motivate myself, to professionalise my writing, and to get my poetry “out there” and feel as if I can actually, in fact, write (not just write, but write well). Sometimes the doubt sinks in of course, and you can tell when I lose the ‘courage’ to post such personal pieces.  It is not so much that it is personal really, all of my writing is, in fact, I feel quite liberated in expressing my ideas.

This particular post is a ‘whatever’ post. The ‘whatever’ post is a way to move past self-doubt and just ‘give-it-a-go’ whether you like it or not (there has got to be a reason why I have the 200 + followers, right?). Meaning that ‘in the name of Merlin’ (Harry Potter reference, if you don’t know it you’re not my friend) I shall write, damnit! And write whether it is good or just ordinary.

Let the ‘whatever’ post be the blogger’s doctrine and let us not worry about the opinions of others but encourage ourselves to ‘give it a go’ and write. In fact, write everyday if you can. Life’s too short.

Whole Words – Poetry

Whole Words

By J. A. Weymouth

There is a lonely man who ponders still

That crazy hoax that is beyond, near all

Of contemplation and sour thrill

The experience of many: the advanced scrawl.

 

The energy draws back in uneasy steps

Trailing inwards and coiling your insides

Quickening with horrid, trepid missteps

The look received fools and divides.

 

It is the poet who sees those naked eyes

Wandering over many matching reflections

Their quiet tastes of the idea standing by

Of all that fails those contemplative questions.

 

Who is the poet? Is that the man or the deer?

That doe-eyed look of words that do come forth

Sprung up beneath or beyond that higher seer

Come from unwavering lengths of tender thought.

 

It is like this equivalence, this treasured creativity

That is beyond all of me and my soul

These words are not mine, simply pure proclivity

From an un-tranquil mind in need to become whole.