The Pen of a Ready Writer

I don't know what prompted this memory, but it was certainly something I hadn't thought about in years. When I was in the 6th grade, I somehow got the job of working in the office during lunch. This meant I sat at the secretary's desk to answer phones and greet visitors while the secretaries went to lunch. Looking back, that seems like a pretty big responsibility to give a 6th grade student, and frankly, I'm surprised I wasn't afraid of the job.

I think I liked the idea of sitting in an office, answering phones, being important. I even got to use the P.A. system when I had to call teachers in their lounge. I do remember being afraid to interrupt them.

I also remember there was a giant electric typewrite behind one of the desks. Somewhere along the way, I asked if I could use it during my lunch. I would quickly eat my lunch, and then busily type away. I would write story after story after story. I don't remember any of the stories, and I have no idea where they went, but I used to write and write. I loved writing, and I dreamed of publishing a book or a book of poems someday.

I don't know where the stories went. I don't know where my imagination disappeared to, and I am still missing the desire I used to have for writing.

In college, I wrote poetry almost everyday. After college, I pretty much stopped. I have a folder of poems I wrote as a kid. I have a funny story about that, too, but I'll save that for another time.

I did write a poem the other day. It was a rarity. This is NOT about me. It was about a situation I saw.

A failure to anticipate
the hell ahead of this mistake,
has led me to an awful place
that leaves me weeping, void of grace.

In any other circumstance,
I would not wish for second chance;
but flames of torture 'round me dance,
and thus, I search for mercy's glance.

Have pity on this wretched soul
that's ruined with a fateful blow,
the beauty and majestic glow
of love that only I could know.

Hide justice from my burning eyes,
forgive and sear the damning lies.
let restoration be called mine.
undeserving, still, I cry.