I used to write poetry, a lot. A couple of decades ago or more, it was how I expressed what couldn’t be expressed in any other way; metaphors for my reality.

I miss the catharsis that came with that. There was a certain release of pressure that came from the ends of my fingers out through the ink onto the paper. Words created just for me. I did not have a care what others saw in my writing, it wasn’t written for their understanding. They could speculate if they wished.

Over the next years, I let people in my life influence me, change me. They did speculate what my words meant and it caused pain; sometimes for them, more often for me. I wasn’t strong enough to defend myself/ my writing, it was easier to submit. So I stopped writing.

With time, I even changed what I read. I stopped reading poetry and fictional prose and instead read history, biography and other non-fiction. I became overly interested in why people believe what they believe, religious or otherwise. I began to see the connection between the forced change of peoples, cultures, and even countries and how, with time, these forced changes become belief of fact; personal truths; realities. I see how things and people who shouldn’t have but did cause change in me.

Knowing this, I am still unable to let the words flow. I am strong, I can handle whatever comes my way, however, I have no courage. I have no active fight in me, only passive fortitude.

So what’s to become of me? I only, always, have considered myself a writer. I have only ever described myself as such even if I earned a living doing otherwise. Years of doing what must be done; not rocking the boat; keeping the status quo with only occasional glimpses of the rebel poet that lives inside have gotten me to this point. I’m now in a place that is different, with people in my life who are different. The status quo has changed. I can rock the boat if it suits me and no one will chastise me for doing so. Still, courage is transient.

I have old notebooks, even now, that have survived dozens of moves; pages of poetry and scraps of lines that never made it that far, saved. Perhaps I should liberate them, see what they say now.

Maybe there will be no meaning. Maybe only the pain of all I’ve seen and lived through. Maybe a balm for my soul. Maybe the writer is in there. Maybe courage.