There was a time in my life when I had so much passion about poetry, the beauty of words and phrases......ah, I could laugh or weep over one or two.
I even dreamed of becoming a published poet, a novelist ...... or anything related to it.
I've written few short stories when I was younger then but those I failed to keep..... I thought they could come easy and writing would never become a struggle.
Beautiful words seemed like the ink that freely flowed from the quill once it touched the pulp....so much easier then...guess my pen ran out of ink now.
I blog to bring back the old soul. I admit it's not as easy as I thought. Many times it just comes out like a "report"of what transpired during the day. I wanted to go deeper and draw something beautiful out of the ordinary and often did I see beauty in everyday stuff but I'm always short of words to write....
Is it because I'm operating in the language not my own? Would I be a better writer in my heart language? Surely, my own children would not comprehend it. Does studying four other languages affect my ability in English?
These were the thoughts I had when I tended my garden today. The moment was so rich while pulling out weeds and beholding the budding roses....I wanted to write how much the experience has conveyed a message to my heart....plain words would be an insult for such an insight...
Until I found words flowing out again, I guess I would just say I'm a poet at heart.
Photos by: RSM 09