Sharing my Inspiration and a little Poetry: Damaged.

I have been asked where does my inspiration for my writings come from? In this case my poetry. The answer is everywhere. At times it comes from real life and at times it comes from observing and listening to others. Sometimes a simple line in a book will get me started. I will sit for hours figuring  and mapping out the lines to follow. At times it comes easy and at times it does not. The writers' workshop class I am taking has allowed me to open my eyes to the fact  that there are endless possibilities just waiting out there in our every day lives.

That being said, I have come to the realization that often pieces are never quite done. Some take you in a total different direction than you thought when you first began the piece and there are always going to be ones you favor over others. Which is true for most things in life.

I say this because I am sharing my work with you, in the realization that some of the pieces will be the first cuts. I will get feedback and go perfect them later. I did not expect to get the kind of positive feedback that I did on the piece below. But this doesn't mean it is finished. And when it is, I will gladly share the edited version. Until then...

Damaged. 

He sits beside me at a cramped little table.

Waiting for an answer. Of the kind I wish not to say.

To tell the truth, real as it is

The dog that bit my mother 

The blood clot that robbed my brain

Which would change everything forever.

Would bring confusion. Disappointment.

Pain.

There are things

Not understood.

To tell a lie like I did back at 22.

The shark attack I walked away from

Which lead to the three surgeries

That changed everything in an instant

Would bring bravery. Shock.

Awe.

These are things

Better accepted.

The hand of which the question regards

Lays beneath the very table.

Still. Stiff. Numb.

Do I dare say? Or just avoid. I must decide.

“I can’t use it.”

“But you’re beautiful.”

A silent nod, a sympathetic look.

“It’s just a shame.” Then he rises.

“That you’re...”

A sneer slides across his face.

It’s brief but does not go unnoticed.

“Damaged.”

He leaves me then.

Clutching the very hand.

Still. Stiff. Numb.

Ashamed.