Hush, I hear the papers rustle,
softly as I turn on to another page.
The first word forms itself on my silent lips,
and my pen touches the sheet.
My miserable handwriting is like a thorn.
A thorn on a smooth field of flowers,
a raincloud on the clearblue sky…
I hear the screams, I feel the pain.
But I remember the good moments,
the times I laughed, the times I smiled.
The black ink on the white paper,
seems like a stain of blood on a newborn child,
alien, but still familiar.
Words of completion, of compassion.
Verses of death, and of torture.
I’ve written them all, felt the pain,
and lived through it all over again.
It’s all buried somewhere far in the distance,
a place I locked so carefully to be forever forgotten,
but still not fallen completely into oblivion.
I left my sense there, too, along with memories,
too painful to write.
The final word is written down at last,
and a wave of relief rushes over me.
I feel alone, cold, beaten to pieces.
And there I sit with my pen still in my hand,
confusing words all over the paper,
with tears still in my eyes.
I lift up the block with all the heavy words,
my dearest friends,
and softly breathe life into the words.
Photograph (Sept. ’12) & Writing (Winter ’11) by Lisa Marina.