I think I speak for many when I say, sharing our words is a vulnerable action. Many writer write from their experience, their emotions, losses, and wins. Anytime we are asked to expose ourselves to the world, there is risk involved. However, this is an obstacle any artist must be willing to overcome.
"What good are wings without the courage to fly"- Atticus
Sharing my writing is NOT a strength of mine. Vulnerability is NOT something I enjoy, just ask my boyfriend. However, as with all jobs, I've always stood by the idea that if you want to have an opinion, if you want to be heard, or if you want to know you tried, you have to find your seat at the table.
Learn to find your seat at the table, to share your words.
It is a vital step to moving yourself forward.
This is not what I would consider to be my favorite poem, but one that I feel in my soul when I read it back to myself. I wrote it for myself, to remind myself on hard days of my own reservoir.
RESERVOIRS by Christine Reynebeau
Oh, how the ages find you and into your skin you grow
Failing, winning, crying, dreaming, learning things you couldn’t prior know,
Without the time, the experience, the twists of life
That test your line, bend your will, and sharpen the knife;
That blade of protection, the guardian of your soul
Your arsenals are ready for battles that have yet to show,
How aimlessly you prepare for a war with its own weighted score
And somehow the enemy always understands more.
So onward they come to empty your strength, cut down at the knee
Your whispers tell of certain loss, a ‘time to run, do not fight, simply flee’.
And that misery holds you, the burden of decimated hope
Of reaching for anything right as they pull away the rope
That you hope for in peril, that you believed would save the day.
But pulled from your reach, your heart’s faith dwindles away
And you, bloodied, battered, beaten and taken by scorn
You’re decorated with scars, you've so naturally worn
They tell stories of these battles, times of trial and strife
You’re not victimized and defeated; you’re not designed to cower in this life
Have they not met you? Do they not see the art on your skin?
You forgot for a moment, your soul was weathered, but this is your story to begin
To write the plot of, to decide how it ends.
You’ve been handed a voyage of bumpy trails and sharp bends
Your badges are waiting, you’re voyage is far from complete
As ages still find you and you fill your skin, there are more yous to meet.
The conquering victory we’ve dream to behold,
lies in faith in our fall, faith in the reservoirs of fortitude
that we will begin to unfold.
Please, feel free to provide constructive feedback and comments. I share this to be brave, but also to learn from my readers.