How I Met Writing #writing

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