"A Story's Rebuke" - A Poem

“Ah, I see,” came the whisper amid the hurry of my writing hand.

Cold had filled me, a biting cold I scarce believed.

“Have you finally remembered me?," it seethed.

Now that you’re mind is tired from it’s daily toil,

So now your offerings are dead and soiled?”

“I now see the reverence of your regards,” continued the voice, more felt than heard.

Darkness had besieged my guards and left my thoughts as broken shards,

“Do you find beholding attention hard,

Now that a separate life beckons and with dreams, you have again, thee, reckoned?”

“Tis sad," it hissed, "For I have bridged the gap between the worlds of your mind,

And gifted you the ability to walk among the noble and cad,

Amongst the poor and the glad,

All from the safety of your writing room,

But you dare sweep me beneath with your proverbial broom!”

“No,” said I, through heart, cold and trembling,

“My devotion is something you must know, and that if there is lack of show,

My thoughts upon you, and only you, do I bestow.

Throughout the day I dream simply of writing and expanding our reach

Time is fickle, and your forgiveness, I beseech.

“Your hand is stained with flaked ink," growled the voice in my soul.

"For did you not think? Fickle time should not sever this link,

For you need me like the thirsty need a drink.

I am the release you have searched for years to discover,

But now I wait days, untouched, under this dusty hardcover.”

“Am I now forgotten in the land of lost manuscripts?" it asked. "And are our heartstrings untethering?

Is this the fate my future depicts? Is this the final word’s barren edict?

What of me do you dare predict?

You heartless, foolish, broken aspirer,

A collector of us -- we, the unloved desires.”

“Am I the story you once adored?" Anger fled from the meek rush of air. "Am I the same book, that your dreams, I stored? A breath of air you need to breathe, implored?

A family you would never dare to ignore?

Or has a lack of time finally destroyed us all?

Is this the end – the mark of my author’s slow fall?”

"Words, at times," I whispered, "they wilt like flowers,

But there are seeds left to once again grow.

Though they may not sprout for days or for hours,

The time will come when the world will know,

Within your pages, within your words, I have woven my soul,

And without your wisdom, without your wonder, my world would wither and dull.

But imagination ignites a spark that burns throughout reality,

And with it, I live my life and come to write, and peace is within this duality."

"So no, I might not come to write each day or make a thousand words,

But know that it is in my heart to create a thousand worlds,

And no I may not print and bind within my dreamt-up time,

But the story will be meaningful and full of beautiful life,

Because I took the time to presently live in mine..."

-Elizabeth Mae Wolfram

Final Thoughts:

It's OKAY to not get to writing every day. It's OKAY if you take a break from writing for a year, or two, or three! If it's what you need or what happens because of your situation, then that doesn't make you any less of an author or writer. It makes you human.

So, don't beat yourself up over not writing.

Life has got to be lived and, quite frankly, life is what matters in the end.

Writing is a beautiful thing, but it isn't the ultimate goal.

Life is.