Photo by Mike Petrucci (Public Domain)
My heart is in my eyes, like a periscope
reaching up from deep inside my chest,
feeling everything I see.
But not seeing everything I feel,
I choke and sputter,
searching for a picture,
a story to settle the waves.
Fumbling, my fingers
cannot draw the dream,
cannot sculpt the scene
and so I paint with words.
Paint a landscape
with letters in black and white,
lines and curves
that you speak to life
with your heart-voice,
your silent voice only you can hear.
And your soul’s ear
hears my unsung song,
melting words like wax, into colors
that splash across the canvas
of your mind.
You color in my landscape with you.
So that together,
you and I,
we create this something.
This one thing.
We paint a world.
© Nichole Q Perreault
To my friends, readers and subscribers. I have been a little “stuck” lately in my writing and so, in trying to get “unstuck” I have joined WordPress.com’s Writing 101. As a result, I may be posting more than usual over the next month. My apologies for clogging up the inboxes of my subscribers. I debated not posting this one, but so many of you are my friends and while I write primarily to understand, I also write to be understood. So those of you who are my friends and family: Welcome to 20 minutes (or a bit longer) of my free-wheeling inner dialogue and thanks for being my friend anyway.
So after hours of agonizing over this “free” write assignment, here I am. Writing. How “free” it is, I’m not sure. The only way I can even do this assignment is to tell myself or at least pretend that I’m not going to publish it. Because the moment I think someone is going to read it, all freedom goes out the window. Which I hate. Because, honestly, I like to think of myself as someone who is rather free-spirited and not burdened by what others think. The reality, however, is that I do care what others think.
VINES AND ROSES
I want to write beauty
Words that wrap and wind around each other
Like vines and roses
Strong and rich
Living and breathing out air heavy with the fragrance of mystery
Yet light enough to ride along a breeze
I want to tell a story
Not mine but Another’s
Already written yet still being told
This story lives
And I live inside its words – because of its words
They are written on my arms, across my face
Upon my beating heart, drifting on the wind that leaves my lungs
Symbols and signs from another time, another place
Perhaps never spoken but by One
And yet they speak of me
Of you, of all
They are every story
And the only story
One that was and is and will be told
Wont you tell me?
And I will tell you…
Written in response to the WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge
Not exactly written at lunchtime but kept to a limited time without overthinking.