I didn’t share a poem for three years.
For three years stories and poetry swirled inside me, reaching every limb, screaming at every vein, wanting to be heard. I have pages of poetry, my life exposed in journals, every page a new stanza. Kendrick (my partner) believes he’s partly responsible for my distance from writing. He may be right. From my mother I learned self sacrifice. I learned to put my home, my family, before my own desires.
My mother ingrained strict work ethic into my sister and me.
“Finish your work, put it first, then you may do as you please.”
My mother’s work consisted of her children, her home and earning money. She never verbalized this…she didn’t have to. The evidence was clear.
As I have grown into an adult, mother and partner, I have adopted my Mother’s “work.” And by doing so, I have neglected my passion, my craft, the one constant in my life—-writing.
I have forgotten that Writing is my work and deserves just as much practice and attention as I give my dirty laundry and dishes. I must believe that this is my work. I must believe that I am worthy of it…
I have been a mother for one month and two weeks. In that time I have lost and found myself several times over.
Motherhood has become a mirror—- revealing all the wounds I once coated with charm and grins and wit.
My partner sees me. My front does not phase him. He calls out my bullshit.
“You’re a writer. You’re a poet. I fell in love with you will watching you on stage. I miss that.”
Until now, I haven’t had the courage to admit….I miss it too. I miss wordplay. I miss being on the mic in front of crowds of people. I miss rushing home to write, for fear the inspiration may leave me.
I have so many stories to tell.
Are you ready to hear them?….my truth is #rawasfuck.