This morning I saw this on Facebook. A friend of mine who is a masseuse posted it.

I love Rumi. I love the story of Rumi.

I used to write poetry. I loved reading and writing poetry. I fell in love all the time with people who didn’t really love me. And in the end they would leave me. My heart broken, I wrote poetry.

It was a cleansing. I could clean my suffering out, pouring out my heart all over the paper. Only seriously, my poems never made any sense. You would never have guessed they were about love. I purposefully wrote without ever writing. A lot like the way I talk. Talking without ever saying anything.

So I have all these poems that no one knows what they are about. Very vague representations of a string of words, always my favorite words at the time, that only served as cryptic vases for my thoughts. I didn’t want anyone to really know that I loved them so much, nor did I want anyone to know that they could ever have any power to hurt me. No way. So poetry that doesn’t say what it really says was my answer. Pour out my heart into something that means nothing.

Just in case someone might discover how vulnerable sensitive and soft I am. Nope don’t let them see that part. Don’t ever let them see inside me.

I can lie and cheat and be generally not forthcoming. It’s easier than being honest and getting hurt.

Perhaps today I will try to open the door to my pain so that I can create something miraculous that actually says something.