This past semester spent at home gave me an opportunity to really channel my inner creativity. With no where to go and no one to see, I was forced to either communicate with my family or entertain myself somehow. The ladder seemed to win every time. Being a Communication Studies major and minoring in creative writing, I was assigned multiple writing assignments this semester. One of them being to take a piece of poetry that you created and translating it into a different genre. I chose to take my poem and make it into a flash fiction piece.
This piece means a lot to me. I felt very vulnerable and hesitant writing it and sharing it online with my class. I was pleasantly surprised by the feedback I received. So many people reached out to me and gave me amazing compliments on my piece. They related to what i wrote about and it made me so proud to call that piece mine. I decided to share it with you all on here in hopes it brings a sense of comfort to at least one person out there. We tend to assume the negative feelings we experience are exclusive to us. I hope this poem proves otherwise.
The Rainbow
The sun will always rise,
But you were my sun,
The storm will always pass,
But you were my rainbow,
That filled those who were lucky enough to catch it with happiness.
Like a cup of coffee with no cream and sugar,
A pen with no ink,
A flower plucked from its stem,
Alcohol without the burn.
Slowly, the coffee gets its flavor back,
The pen has enough ink,
The flower rests on its stem,
And the alcohol burns.
The storm ends,
The sun rises,
And I'm my own rainbow.
I used to wake up and if the sun wasn't shining I wasn't really worried because I could roll over and your gentle face would provide all the light and warmth I needed. If my coffee order was messed up and there wasn't enough sugar, I didn't worry because you were sweeter than any amount of liquid cane sugar. If my fingers stopped pushing on the keyboard and my thoughts ran dry, I would look at you and my inspiration would replenish. And if the alcohol didn't give me the buzz I was looking for, I could grab your hand and feel the electricity shoot through me.
It's not that I don't love that you could do that for me. It's the fact that I don't do that for myself. If the sun is hiding I roll back under the covers and sulk. If my coffee is made wrong, my day is ruined. If my fingers stop typing, the inspiration is gone for good. If the alcohol doesn't give me a buzz, I keep going until it does.
It's not that I don't want you to fill those weak spots. But I want to be able to fill those weak spots for myself.
