You ask why
You ask why I don't write anymore
my spirit cries for peace as
it is hateful and reeks of animosity
my life was stolen by diamonds
and other things, only golden
for others
I scream at the injustice but
I'm alone and no one comes
In a home filled with my belongings
I'm a visitor, surveying how
questioning why my clothes
are old
The answers swallowed
by an opinion I once owned
You ask why I don't write
it scares me
to think I may have given away
my deepest ambition
Natalie Fuhr
You ask why
Dear Natalie ~
Your presence here has been missed, as well. Your return comes with delight to see you, and empathy with seeing the profound sadness in your words. You've spoken to so many levels with eloquence so typical of you. I feel compelled to privately message you, regarding the chords you've struck in me....and so I will.
Love,
Elizabeth
In re-reading your poem, just prior to messaging you, I want to say how dynamic I find your words. Your poem resonates and speaks volumes, and contains such incredible depth of feeling....and I mean "contains." I can hear the cries of your heart, the screams of your soul. I pray the decision of forgiveness comes to you, soon; and the obstacles of bitterness and pain find their way out of you and onto your paper, allowing you to continue writing and your life's work. Catharsis.
My best to you, Natalie.
Your presence here has been missed, as well. Your return comes with delight to see you, and empathy with seeing the profound sadness in your words. You've spoken to so many levels with eloquence so typical of you. I feel compelled to privately message you, regarding the chords you've struck in me....and so I will.
Love,
Elizabeth
In re-reading your poem, just prior to messaging you, I want to say how dynamic I find your words. Your poem resonates and speaks volumes, and contains such incredible depth of feeling....and I mean "contains." I can hear the cries of your heart, the screams of your soul. I pray the decision of forgiveness comes to you, soon; and the obstacles of bitterness and pain find their way out of you and onto your paper, allowing you to continue writing and your life's work. Catharsis.
My best to you, Natalie.