A Late Bloomer’s Thoughts

When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame the hot weather on a cold December.
I heard every noise and distractions a night can offer.
I push myself up to the last thought,
but I’ll end spending hours staring on a blank paper,
thoughts wandering but nowhere to go.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I’ll invent stories;
stories with no ending, neither a beginning.
I’ll spend time chatting with characters I’ve made up,
forming their roles and making a mess with them.

I forced my poor mind to complete
even just one sentence that makes sense,
and unfortunately end up with nothing.
All words jammed together without a clear thought,
just like a blur.

When I can’t think of something that makes sense,
I blame the tiresome, long day,
for draining up my wit and strength.
I try to relax and unwind for a minute
but still, gained nothing but a yawn.

But my poor heart wants to say something to the world
yet my mind can’t decipher what the heart wants to say.
I try my best to hear my conscience—
if it can help me with something wonderful.
Alas, I can only hear my own voice singing a Carpenters’ song.
Even my conscience takes a break.

I read magazines and even the Bible for some inspirations,
but I only got make up tips
and ‘how to make him notice you’ information,
though helpful, I admit.
And oh, yes, the Bible says,
“Wisdom is in every thought of the intelligent people;
fools know nothing about wisdom”.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame my boring love life—-
Oh, I don’t even have a ‘love life’.
A woman in love can write a novel
about how she feels at exactly that moment,
expressing her love by thousand words.

I thought that’s why I can’t even write
one sentence that makes sense—
I’m not in love.

When inspiration doesn’t spend time with me,
sometimes even a fortnight,
I feel so empty.
A writer needs inspirations to write.
And when passion seems like taking a rest too,
like a fire in an open field,
trying to stay ablaze in a stormy weather—
there’s nothing poorer than that to a writer;
a broken glass; a wet book;
a withered plant.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame my pen and my notebook
for not keeping up with my mood.
And after a series of erasures and wasted, crumpled papers,
I forced myself again.

And soon, everything fits to place.
There’s no one to blame really,
not even myself.
Yes, blame is such a harsh word
because I realized, all these jammed words,
still made sense, indeed it makes sense —
even when I can’t think of something to write.

-jle120612 (Photo not mine)



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