I am like a child in a classroom,
curiously bewildered in new surroundings,
painstakingly writing strange symbols on paper,
in anticipation of forming future words of meaning
to be ultimately linked using ornate hooks and loops.
I sit alone now on my emotional island,
learning the painful letters of a different language,
slowly placing them one after another in isolation
onto the waiting horizontal lines of my book,
replacing old familiar phrases that occupy yesterday’s pages.
The lone letters make no sense,
separated even when positioned close to each other,
not yet ready to be written comfortably together
with a smile and a confident flowing hand.
They are the phrases I am unable to compose.
But when these tentative sentences speak to others
who hide behind their faces in trauma and turmoil,
an individual suffering is eased collectively,
the feelings voiced translating themselves across our voids
to finally achieve the joined-up writing we all seek.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Susan
Wilson would be pleased to hear them.