Archive for questions

What Writer’s Block Sounds Like

Posted in Life, Present with tags , , , , on January 13, 2014 by Shea Atkin

I continue to try to read more and more to escape the writings that need to be done. As time goes on, the necessity increases as my willingness decreases. It used to be a gift, a joy to pick up the pen and put it to paper. I loved anticipating what fiction (although perceived as absolute fact) was going to come out. Now I look at the words–they are mine–but I don’t want them. They don’t pass whatever criteria I have for being legitimate. So my words are orphans without a home and where they come from (myself) doesn’t want them either. The limbo of lost and seemingly insignificant words flowing freely but unwanted from their creator although the necessity of their origination being vital. Only in connecting the fragments do I understand the stained glass. The beauty in the brokenness. The authenticity.

Floating aimlessly over the page–these words are for whom? What is the point? And what are they supposed to mean? I used to write publicly but I don’t know if I ever will again. It all sounds like shit. God–where do we go from here? I wish I could say that I miss the ‘me’ that used to write but I’m so glad that time has passed. Those words were also necessity with a tone of despair and hopelessness. The end of the pen was my only solace–the ultimate higher power. Now the pen is only the vessel. It’s role has changed as well as the heart that inspires it’s movement. The flow is choppy at best. Fragmented thoughts without the sting on cynicism. Truth, with the only hopelessness being in the ego. Words don’t sound as sexy coming from a healthier place. The darkness seemed to draw such appeal. Now I sit awake with truth and light unable to convey artistically the essence of that reality. And I sit.


Only Questions

Posted in Life, Past, Poetry, Present with tags , , , , , on January 4, 2013 by Shea Atkin

Sitting with no answers
Only questions of motives
And a sinking feeling in my gut–
Only though about after the alleged occurrence

Questioning what is real
And what is just perception
And aren’t both the same?

Leaves me to ask
What’s the point of all this?

A long succession of self-judged failures
Masking as a lesson
At least that is how it feels

This journey, that is supposed to be the point?

I make more mistakes than ever before
Or maybe I’m just more aware
Or maybe my position on the word mistake has changed

Wanting to escape the elusive “I am”
Hit the pause button every now and then
Longing for the easier way I had grown so accustomed

But the honest way provides no shortcuts
No escape routes
The distance is the same for everybody
That comforts
And irritates me
All at the same time

This human experience
The unpredictability of it all
The unknown
And the known
Is everything
And nothing
All at the same time