I have not written a ‘spit’ in quite some time. Plenty of material has landed at my feet but nothing has dragged me kicking and screaming to the door of my mind ready to slam conviction at a piece of paper and thus an audience. I have written pieces inspired by the people who have ventured to my facebook and wordpress pages. Words both holding messages and some simply off the cuff little miracles. Some slip over the skin like a lover’s longing and others simply warm the heart like an old friend sitting with you on a cold night. I have been writing, just not slamming.
I have wondered, am I afraid?
Even poets get scared. Poetry exposes the author and the reader. It is one of the few ways to tap both sides of the brain and come out the other side beautiful, exposed, and vulnerable. Poetry IS the poet and hopefully becomes the reader. It is an intimate dance without touching – connected only by words and visions, painted sometimes skillfully other times not. I digress.
So why can’t I write a slam piece? A spit. Plain and simple. I am afraid of something. When fear happens, the pen hesitates. It shifts to safer margins. It avoids edges. It seeks blue lined, wide ruled, pre punched holed paper, and waits.
I question, what am I afraid of?
Spitting is about truth. Poetry is about truth. If you really look at it. If you really dig deep there is no poem not bathing naked in a poet’s truth. Every line slips out a secret. Every period, comma, or lack there of, undresses her without care to the state of the poet at all. But that is the lure of poetry – that is the poet’s obsession. How to move, be moved, and stay one syllable ahead of the reader or audience. We are a morphing bunch. We are a soul few who long to trip through the world, taste it, devour it, caress it, love it, flip it over and dive into it. So what the hell am I afriad of?!
What if. perhaps.
What if truth is not what I want it to be? What if, I discover some of my long standing beliefs I no longer believe? What do I do with this?! How do I proceed? Is this even about writing a spit or is this about finding out I am lost and traversing my way back to my path? Is this about someone else finding me? Is that what this note is about? Would someone even look? or know where to? Who would it be…. and if they knew the truth of me, would they try? Would I?
Why am I afraid?
I am afraid becaue I know, without a doubt, I am not being completely truthful. That is not to say it is intentional, that is to say I am just aware. I realize I am holding my pen to the middle of the page and hesitating. I am not sure how I got here. I am not entirely sure what courses of events or “lies” even moved me to this position, but it is clear I am not pursuing my passion to its fullest potential, which is Poetry in its hardest form. The hardest form of poetry is truth.
One truth is – I am afraid but I am going to figure this out anyway. I have championed #Be_____ courageous, awesome, authentic, brave… and I must, without a doubt, be willing to do the same things I ask / demand of others.
And so I shall.
What am I afraid of? I am going to find out.