You have to write for yourself if you want to cut through the noise. This world is full to the teeth with attempts to extract you from your own essence. Your own wild scent. What you want is to be alone in a field with the soft rain on your skin, listening. Keep your eyes trained upon the blue-gray blur in the distance, the washed out curve of nature into sky.
I have held so many a hand which meant me harm. I laughed into the pain and breathed life into pleasures I had no right to claim. You cling to bodies which are no match for your prismatic mind. In the dead heat of night, I moan into your palm, psalms of otherworldly desire, naked, vulnerable, soul bared before the strength of your need. There are ways to be free and ways to be chained to ill-fated alliances. I struggle with and against both.
What I know is there is so much hidden from us. What I believe is the trap had been set since before we could understand those who encircled us like vultures, hunted us. What I sense in the marrow of my being is that we are handed, from the very beginning, too many locks and not enough keys. Treasure chests sunk to the bottom of the indifferent sea. Heavy with jewels never once seen.
When he drags his fingers along my jaw, the sensation runs the entire length of my body. A single touch unlocks my most ancient and timeless of secrets. His hand on my throat. I become the instrument, ache to offer him the music of my devotion. I remain motionless as I learn to weather the storms which are taking over the fields inside me. I always knew they were there. How I longed to return to their heavenly waves.
What I know is there is far too much I do not know about the ways I am capable of expanding, of being reborn, of becoming new. I write to keep close to something which turns in my blood. Which trembles and shakes its own walls until it cannot be denied. To write is to surrender to yourself inside of something much bigger than you can possibly understand all at once. If you find it hard to do, perhaps this is why.
Allison Marie Conway 
Beautifully written, Allison! It can be so easy to lose hold of your true self with all the distractions and clutter and pitfalls of the world today – writing certainly helps rediscover that inner voice and help it blossom!
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Thank you ever so much, Tom. I am so touched this piece spoke to you. ❤
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I find that often the difficult idea, the disturbing words or phrases are the ones to pay attention to … my own wild scent (what a brilliant term!) is unlocked when I do.
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Mmm I love this, yes. And thank you so ever much. ❤
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“…perhaps this is why. You have to write for yourself…” Why you have to live your own life… not let others live it for you… “…laughed into the pain, and breath life into pleasures…” How else can one discover who one truly is? And come across… “…Treasure chests sunk to the bottom of (an) indifferent sea. Heavy with jewels never once seen…” We are who we are, not clay to be molded into make-believe… or washed out linen dripping tears from a line on a windy day… “…What I know is there is far too much I do not know about the ways I am capable of expanding, of being reborn, of becoming new….”
Yes… your piece says so much to me, as it dances around my words… giving grace, and rhythm to what I know I have always known… yet not whispered even to myself… could it be… a kind of fear? “…perhaps this is why…”
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I am so deeply grateful that my words inspire you so. Thank you so much for spending time. ❤
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Perfect. Yes. I wonder how common it is for others–for readers–to assume this immense strength in a writer. Images of Hemingway come to mind–big, manly, as if in complete control of his self, his writing, his world. Until he put a bullet in himself. Which is also an act of control, I imagine. But how much more transformative is writing, how much more transformed is the writer, writhing among the constraints of others, of time, needing to express, to put pen to paper again. Or else… You capture so well that struggle, that all-encompassing need. I think that is why I have always been so drawn to your writing, dearest Allison–when I read it, I am not reading words. I am experiencing you, the being of you that absolutely refuses to remains silent. And I thank the gods for that!
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However on earth could I thank you for such a gorgeous comment, for sharing in my creations the way you do. I am so humbled and so very grateful, dearest George. The struggle is a living thing. I know you know this, you respect it. You are a treasure to me. 🙏🏻♥️🌹
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Always a joy and pleasure to read and share your posts with followers, My Dear! Hope you have a great day!! xoxox 😘💕🎁🌹
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Gorgeous piece, beautifully penned!
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Oh thank you ever so much, dear Penny! I’m so touched you enjoyed this piece. 🙏🏻♥️🌹
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