A Writer Who Rarely Writes

I call myself a writer, but I rarely pick up the pen.
The page is left bare until I’m in the mood again.
I’m lucky if I write something once or twice a month.
There’s a battle between my body and brain — never once have I won.

It’s not a lack of ideas or that enemy called writer’s block.
I am flowing with nonfiction and more than enough time on the clock.
Instead it’s fear, I fear, clouding all my thoughts.
There’s a constant gloom above me — in the rain I’m always caught.

But when words do come and swarm the page, I feel like a bird flying.
I stand on a mountaintop and scream, “Can’t you see? I am trying!”
But maybe I’m just not trying hard enough.
It’s me against me and I’m calling my own bluff.

I once read somewhere, “To fly you must fall.”
And I think about how far I’ve come from when I used to crawl.
It feels like I’ve been falling for quite some time now.
I yearn to start flying, but I’m not sure if I know how.

So I’ll close my eyes and feel the breeze.
I’ll relax my muscles and put my mind at ease.
I’ll breathe in and out and take in all the sounds.
When there is nothing but silence, I’ll know I’ve hit the ground.