How I met
Writing
Inside
each and every one of us have little voices that want to be heard. Depending on
the level of our imagination, some of us choose to remain silent and others bring their stories to life. As for me, the true meaning to being a
writer is about making connection with words and writing stories that are generated
from within the guts. Real stories are strong
and usually delivered with details, compassion, full captivation and abstract imaginations.
I started
having the motive for writing right after the death of my father who was
brutally murdered by a few dictatorship men. As a result of his death, my
mother had to leave the country for safety purposes. I was just a young girl
and witnessed such dreadful scene was not easily to process. In the same vein,
I was grief-stricken over his death. That kind of took a toll on my daily
activities, my schooling, my relationship with others; my childhood and you
could name it all.
I
literally became depress like the hollow child. Then, nothing seemed to
interest me. I didn't see the purpose in living. I was always gloomy, uncontrollable
crying under the veil. Not wanting to
get out of bed for no good reason. Coming from my culture and environment,
people were not aware of depressive disorders. There wasn't any reach out for this
kind of help. And I was not allowed to speak of such feelings. Otherwise, my
Grand-Mama would wash my mouth with soap. This might sound like a convoluted
metaphor. But seriously, she wouldn't want to see me looking down and under.
She would say, “Little girl, don’t you bring shame to this family; and you too
strong for that.”
I do remember, being punished for reported
feelings of depression and anxiety. On numerous times, she would keep me behind
closed door for long hours. While being in locked down, scared and lonely, thoughts
started racing inside my head. It felt like a wave of pressure travel to my inner
ears. I remembered, having excruciating headache; it felt as though my head was
splitting in two. It was then; I started scribbling things down on paper. And overtime,
I found myself dabbling in writing. I would write about everything: my anger,
sadness, my concern for the world, from dark to light, slave narrative, named
it all. That’s how I met writing and our relationship is still on the upswing.
My first
poem titled “My archived friend” originally written in 1988 and later published
in 2009.
I have neither gold
nor silver to give you
Neither one would serve your purpose
But...
I'm happy to be part of you.
~~~~~~~~~~``
I have no title or a background of the
well-known
You accept me, as I am
In fact...
None of that is matter to you
~~~~~~~~~~``
When I met you I was bruised
My heart was grated from abused of the dear
known
With your helped, I sustained my burdens
And I jotted down, all that bothered me on the
inside.
~~~~~~~~~~``
Then when I trusted in my faux friends with
secrets of the deepen treasures
They turned around and spreading them out like
world glorified
My inside feels so worthless for having trusted
such untrustworthy foes.
But what else can be done I'm not the kind that
harboring grudges.
~~~~~~~~~~``
So to you I turn, within the pages my words are
archived
They heal my worries each time I read back at
them
They are as safe as angels above seven skies
And sable below deep blue sea
~~~~~~~~~``
For I have neither gold nor silver to give you
But you turn around and give me peace and protection
My relationship with you will remain always
As long there's pen around for me to cast my
thoughts.
© 2009 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved
My second
piece of writing “The Boogeymen in the Black Boots” originally written in 1989
and made public in 2012.
On this
foul terrain
Even the very light blowing wind
Bring the strongest man off balance
Go figure the heavy black boots predators
who spread torture by buckets.
They blow fire with burning pressure
and oppression with no measure;
attempting to meltdown those who are reluctant of their wrongdoings.
Like the no kindest, no heart Apocalypses' laws
Intimidation is ruled to win souls
Rejeanne's father underwent the knife of oppression
They totally drained out his activist blood
Poor Rejeanne, she witnessed the entire reckless operation,
and when her father’s last breath went flat-lining like a candle in the wind.
Her mother escaped through the back wooden window
With little Rejeanne carried on her shoulder
Hours later she fled the country,
and left Rejeanne behind with her Grand-Mama.
Poor child has carried the cross of her time.
She felt short-changed to have lost her father,
and sort of abandoned by her mother.
She shed tears of broken memories;
especially, on father's day same for Mother's day.
Although, her Grand-Mama really tried to act as her parents,
but at times that didn't cut the drill.
She really needed someone to call Mom and Dad and she needed parenting love.
For Rejeanne, being a toddler and life without parents was very upheaval.
The many distressing dreams she always encountered,
Related to the traumatic event she has suffered.
Her nightmares content – the bogeymen in the black boots;
who were trying to break the door open.
Horrific dreams, that she often awoken with her heart pounding from fear.
Through many years Rejeanne spent each day of her life like a
massive morn.
She grew into an anxious adult
Nonetheless compassionate...
Still with the long lasting emotional effects of traumatic experienced
© 2012 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved
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