I want to start writing again
the way I used to.
The way words would come through my mind, channeled
along my arms and
through my hands
Thinking on the bus
the words echo inside
my skull, booming
flowing smoothly like a river
In the eloquence of my solitary thoughts
I can write
I can speak
I have the power of words
I sit on the bus, thinking about
I wonder, can I write in English
The answer flowing through my head before
has been thought. Of course
it has been the native language of my thoughts
I have written.
I tentatively try my mother tongue, but to my dismay
(expected though it is)
the words fall like stones, bumping dully off the bottom of my
I wonder, not quite daring to try
if I could express myself
if I have enough control of the language
if I can find the words, and make others
the way I wish (or in a completely new way hitherto unthought of)
Can I write in my new country's tongue
or will it fail me
too weak a grasp of the subtleties of
grammar, and spelling, and idioms and meanings.
I want to write. I want to
I wish I dared share.