A World of Choice.

I'm a writer, I think...Or at least I was.

I have not written anything for months. I have not had time and I have been afraid of my own words; my own voice.

Between forging a new career and studying I have had no time to write...correction, I haven't made the time. Part of me has fallen out of love with the process. Some of the attraction/my passion stemmed from the dream of one day seeing myself published. I don't have that dream anymore. Despite this colossal realisation, not even my new career can match the passion I once held for writing.

I have decided that I am having a love-hate relationship with my writing. I'm sort of at a loose end. Kind of like a relationship you have with another person that has soured because one of you cheated (that would be me) and though the passion has dimmed considerably, the nostalgia prevents you from moving on. The memories plague the back of the mind and old feelings resurface, but then you remember your present situation and you feel so tired. Tired that you bothered to remember and too tired to want to try again.

I'm at a 'minor' crossroads in my life. I now have time to focus on my writing, though I'm not sure that I want to. I have told people that I will, because I think that is what they want to hear or should hear or whatever. Not only am I battling...deciding what to do in respect of my voice, I am mulling over a number of choices/decisions at present, some of them life-altering. It's not uncommon for me to wonder if I did myself, my writing, a disservice by not taking it seriously earlier on. Then it flips; perhaps I should have never tried to turn my first love into anything more than it already was. I ran out of steam. I over-analysed. I let fear and failure grip me and push me into a completely different direction.

I have this space which I use sporadically. I do not advertise or promote it on social networking sites. On the odd occasion I have linked some pieces to family and friends, to get an opinion from those who know me best. This place is what it is.

As a writer...as a person who truly used to love writing (even the very act of writing!) I am at a crossroads.

Between Me and You.

Our disputes. Arguments. Fights. That's what I called them.
You referred to them as discussions or disagreements.
I always feared these because to me an intense and often heated discussion was not a good thing. Growing up in a matriarchal household it was what we did.
Argued. Constantly.
And it wasn't good for the soul. For the heart.
If my mother argued with my father, it wasn't passionate. It was bitter. Ugly. It was what I knew.

I did not know two people could have a heated discussion and it was just that.
I thought it meant the end of something (positive) and the beginning of something else (negative). My views of positive and negative were, and still are, all over the place. When we would disagree I would get angry, frustrated and believe we were arguing; thereby ending something (what it was) and beginning something else (what it wasn't). I did not know that a man and a woman could disagree, argue even, and it be ok. It always spelled the e-n-d for me.

Thankfully my view on this is shifting.

Revelation

I did not know that I could write my name
With your anger,
In my own blood.

© shellyhu

Workshop

I sit humiliated.
White paper empty.
Black Biro silent.
Its scratchings prevented from occurring,
As it lies beside its master.

My eyes rove around the room.
No eyes meet mine.
Heads are bent to paper.
Brown hands diligently writing away,
And I tremble slightly.

The feeling of not belonging creeps over me and begins to suffocate and I wonder why I am here.

The clock is ticking nearby.
The scribbling continues all around.
With the exception of where I sit.
I sit humiliated.

© shellyhu

Thought.

Within the deepest parts of me
I know what I truly want,
But I tell no one.
And God? He already knows.

© shellyhu

Only Human

At times I feel like I don't belong anywhere.
Always having to prove the goodness of my heart,
And my intentions.

Your dislike for me becomes a dislike for myself.

How do I stop your thoughts from clouding, and becoming, mine;
Ingested and digested but never excreted.
Too much waste for one person to carry (around).

To you, my exterior is like a cactus.
But to me, on the inside, I am the plant without sunlight:
Fragile.
© shellyhu

Crickets In My Bed

Sometimes I cannot breathe,

Oftentimes I cannot sleep.
And I wonder...

My heart tells me I loved you first.
According to them He was there before,
And I wonder if my heart is big enough for the both of you.

You are all consuming and I want it this way.
I have names for you: Friend. Lover. Husband. Soulmate.
But I am promised to someone else - that is what they tell me.

Humanly speaking, you are the closest person to me.
Yet, at night, when the lights are out and my bed remains cold
I speak to Him.

There are fragments of me that you are not privy to.
I feel the need to hide the smallest parts of me,
And offer them as proof that He has all of me.
Am I kidding myself?

His message of Love is how my life should be;
Everything else is just a mass of confusion.
I feel myself changing and within the deepest parts of me
Metamorphosis is painful.

My throat aches from holding back the 10,000 tears
That threaten to drown us both.
I feel like I'm fighting for the three of us,
And I wonder if my heart is big enough.

Sometimes I cannot breathe,
Oftentimes I cannot sleep.
And I wonder...
© shellyhu

New Year, Same Dreams

New Attitude

Same Body

New Challenges

Same Dreams

New Expectations

Same Fears

New Grace

Same Hope

New Intensity

Same Journey

New Kinship

Same Love

New Memories

Same Name

New Observations

Same Passion(s)

New Qualities

Same Reality

New Strategies

Same Tact

New Understanding
Same Veracity

New Year.

In a New Year not everything has to change, nor should everything remain the same.

January's motto: Acceptance
© shellyhu

Time

Let go of the past...(sometimes).

The Future is Nigh,

But the Present is already Here.


December's motto: Forgiveness
© shellyhu

Confession.

In need of a creative outlet - this is the spot I chose.

I thank God for the snippets of creative inspiration I receive every now and then. I'm no longer basking in it, but I much prefer sun on a cold day than no sun at all.

Praying for a lot of things right now; most of all the opportunity to do 'nothing' and grow. To not feel I have a checklist to follow in order to do right, instead to be guided from a distance and know that my roots are being nurtured and my shoots tended to. Creatively and Spiritually I'm attempting to escape my own black hole...I'm positive enough to envision light at the end of this tunnel.

Through it all I'm letting go of expectations...not all at once, just day by day.

November's motto: Loving n Growing.

In Memory Of

Tears flow freely as I struggle to recall your face
Your aging brown skin; glimpses of the Caribbean amongst your wrinkles
You were robust and homely, your embrace as inviting as the smells from your kitchen
Home cooked meals were your speciality.

I miss you, Nana.
Too young to know how truly blessed I was.
Your passing was five years ago and I grieve as if it were today.

As an adult I am unable to share so much of myself with you
I cannot tell you about the day He polished my spirit clean
I cannot ask what kept you praising His name during your darkest days,
For you are no longer here.

I miss the sound of your voice, Nana
I miss the gap in-between your teeth when you smiled.

If I could spend one day in Brixton Market with you, I would
To watch you size up the produce, as if you were valuing precious stones;
Your red and blue striped trolley I would wheel proudly.

You were strong, Nana.
And though you gave birth to my father, I see your reflection in my mother.
You were firm, Nana. But you doted on us.

Can we play the untuned piano again some day?
Can I help you place cherries on your almond cake again some day?
Can I share a pillow with you at night again some day?

I miss you Nana, and it hurts.
You are a vessel of love my children will never know.
© shellyhu

Growth

To measure you inch by inch
To see your presence at every step
Only then will she acknowledge your worth.

The pain may not seem so painful.
The struggle may seem bearable
If she could note down every dent, every bruise
Tally them up, one by one
Only then will she acknowledge your worth.

The steady rise, like night to day, is too abstract.
So she yearns for the moment-to-moment record,
Labelling, chartering and cross-referencing;
An architect's blueprint for her life.
Only then can she acknowledge your worth.

She finds no comfort in reflecting,
Her impatience is her downfall.
© shellyhu

'Women are Heroes' - JR Photography.

I am a late-comer to the wonders of JR.
Better late than never...

(copyright/ownership: © JR - credits : BasilicStudio // aKkY)

Be inspired: http://jr-art.net/

Black Mona Lisa

I am not afraid to be a lone bohemian,

I can paint a portrait of myself.

~Lamya

My Redeemer Lives

Without Faith, I would drown.

Re-birth

Is this my rebirth?

I do not know.
Can a re-birth take place three times over.
Or would this be a re-re-re-birth; the beginnings of a broken record.
Do I have anything new to say. New to add.
And will my ink jots change the world?
Is that my intention though.
Can a writer just write?
A poet just recite?
For the sake of it.
What would be the purpose.

For without purpose, can we truly call it Art?

© shellyhu

untitled

Before the outpouring of love, he spoke to her


During the outpouring of love, he spoke to her.


Afterward, he had nothing left to say.
© shellyhu

Words.

Your words brought back the passion for mine.

Passion that I was more than happy to note down as mere memories.

Memories that I would dust off every once in a while and reflect.

Reflect on the pen to paper; pencil sometimes. Late nights, thesaurus in hand, moonlit by the glare from my computer screen.

My computer that holds so much of me. I had tricked myself into believing I did not care.

Honesty, finally got the best of me.
© shellyhu