When young and green I liked to write
these little bits from time to time.
Were childish, sure, but I thought them alright;
They would get better as I write,
I thought, They should get good, should build,
grow up with time. To me, to write
as just to pass the time; to write
was just creating a something
for fun, was just some sort of something
to do. But quick this effort to write
hit a block. No time to improve they gave, maybe
just enough to "satisfy". Discouraging? Maybe.
Question flit before my work; thought maybe
I was not of writer's cut, 'haps to write
was not my lot, that maybe
it came to zilch. But then, maybe
through English class, and with some time
we read, and wrote. I thought the "maybes"
of the works, and wondered if, just maybe,
this writing thing I could rebuild.
I started small, I tried to build
on my view, then starting maybe
to pen my own. That summer proved something:
that maybe my scribbles could come to something.
It took some time, but I wrote some things
of which I was proud. Now infant, maybe,
but I was glad to call it something
then: tales of my friends, doing something
fantastic. That first summer to write
was fun again. My practice birthed something
akin to skill, from skill came confidence, something
I'd lacked. By no means perfect, but time
proved good. I laid a story time
might show someday, but some things
are just support so as to build
a greater thing. From thence I built
up alone, until I found a way to build
with others. Enter ficlets; 'twas something
at first I didn't get: how could one build
with only 1,024 blocks? But I tried to build
with that set, and decided that maybe
to build in such small walls makes one build
masterfully. It's not easy to build
within such frames, but I tried to write
in that space, and it started to change, alright.
Not only could I in tight confines build,
but also with the support strengthened by time
of others like me, all writing in time.
From thence I sought company and time
to write with others in different places. I built
not only skills, but some company that time
has been good to keep. Time
proves greedy now, but something
akin to freedom shows up, as time
to write. But that is spare, that time.
Practice has to hold for now, maybe
some free time will show…. maybe.
Ah, she's a slippery devil, time;
before so good to help me write,
but other muses demand me write.
Through thick and thin, passion to write
has driven me significantly through time,
and has given me strength to try and build
from an abstract thing a concrete something
of some value… hopefully, maybe.