.... That chance!

I am a huge book

But instead of the pages being white

They are binded black

No words can be seen

No words can be heard

For a long time now

That’s the way it had been

A book of a constant battle

with myself and the world around me

Not once that I have that chance

To be truly happy

To truly believe in myself

To truly open my heart

And not worry that it may get broken

or be torn apart

I thought I had taste that chance once

for it was torn away from me quickly

nothing but my imagination

holding on to false love

I questioned it everyday

Still no answer falls

Am that much of disapointment in this world

That I don’t deserve such existense

I’ve been told that am stupid

I’ve been told that am depressed

I maybe just that

But I can’t help wanting that chance

Want to write a story

On white pages

 And not stare at blankness

Life never let me be my own person

I was never strong enough to take hold

I always relied on someone else

But not someone I can call my best friend

My pesious pebble or my rock

I am afraid of people

Which makes the world even more

Frightening

Because people, friends even family

Couldn’t accept me for me

I did some crazy stuff

Just to show how alone I was

Still, it did not make a difference

They carried on like am nothing

It was attention seeking

When all I was doing

is crying out for help

Somedays it is like

I have three routes

There is happy,

There is nowhere

And then,

there is that chance

I see it reach out

Like it has its own set of hands

But I brush them off

Feeling alien

I don’t try to make people understand

I don’t want to make them understand

It could be where am going wrong

And sometimes, I don’t care

When I know I should

Cause they are thy people I love

I know I am not the only human to feel this

Some would go that little bit further

Take their own lives at will

Where I have a lot holding me back

Keeping my feet grounded

Though at times they lift a little

And I have moments, I can’t help wonder

Would they have a better life without me

I am not the best, nore am I perfect

Am not a great mother

I am not stunning

I am not beautiful

Though, I can handle being  called

‘pretty’

I can be annoying

do Some things that you may not expect

But is it enough

For anyone,  really?

My world is one big book

Where the pages are not white

They are black

Waiting to be filled with stars

Maybe the moon to light my way

But mostly,

That chance…

Author's Note

This one is real personal to me!!!

Reviews

[EMF]

The power leaves my mind spinning. Incredibly written and with such presence... such imagry... brilliant work.

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

These letters formed warm words of a glowing text in my mind,
which threatened to slowly burn way all of the black....
until only white pages existed to write a new story.
The imagery was powerful.

[R J Askew]

I think that image of the black book is very, very strong and, in light of the rest of the poem very moving, too. I think many creative folk are misunderstood and riddled with doubt. It is how we are. It is the downside of being lucky in other ways perhaps. We crave to create, to be through our creations. But it is a precarious way to be and our art will not always do or be what we might wish it to do or be. But this is how we are, how our lives are. We do what we can. It is not easy. And it is much, much harder when those around us add to our own doubts by dismissing us, trying to organise us, help us even. The rest of your poem is pure emotion, a statement of who you are and how you are in the face of your struggle with others to be what you are. And at the core of that struggle is that damn black page. I know that well. It is our curse. We know there is something there, but what? but what? and how do we get to it? My conclusion is that we can't. The more we try the more it mocks us, the blacker it seems. My feeling, and that is all it is, a feeling, is that we can but wait for the beauty that is behind the black ... to discover itself to us. All we can do is receive, wait, hope, and receive. Maybe we have to be lucky. Perhaps we won't all see what is there. Who knows? But what I definitely know is that your poem captures exactly how it is to be gifted and cursed with the urge to create. You reached me with this one. I written zillions of words, but still do not know if I am forcing them or reading truly what is on my own black page. What I also know is that we go on striving to read that page because we have to, Nature wills it.