Best Thing about cleaning my Room

If you know me, then you are probably well aware of the fact that I am not the most organized of people. Through the years, I've gotten much better about it, but it is one of the things that I'm still working on.

With that said, when I go on a cleaning and organizing rampage (something I am currently in the middle of), I tend to come across things that I completely forgot about. Whether it be a half-finish crocheted thing which I don't remember how to finish, bracelets that I intended to give to people when I returned from Europe, or twenty-six different writing utensils, nothing is better than when I find old notebooks.

You see, through the years of me proclaiming to be a writer, people tend to most often give me two things: writing utensils or notebooks. Now, I don't often use the writing utensils because I'm actually very particular in what I write with (the simpler the better), but notebooks I'm even weirder about.

If it is a pretty notebook, I hate writing in it because I don't want to waste it. But if it is just like a normal notebook, I will rarely start writing on the first page. For some reason, I prefer flipping to a random page in the middle.

Which means, I can write in a notebook and then forget I've written in it. Then I'll set it aside for YEARS sometimes and when I finally flip through it rather than just open it and see nothing on a page later (generally when I'm completely reorganizing my room) , sometimes I come across gems of ideas. Or complete poems.

Poetry isn't my strong suit, in fact, I much prefer listening or reading other people's poems than writing them myself. But once in awhile I will write something that when I find it years later, it rings enough of a since of appreciation that I will go ahead and share it. This is one of those poems.

I found it in a notebook that I was given by my grand-little while in college. It is the only thing in the notebook, but is more than halfway through.

The Letters of Love
by: S.N.Hild

I've known people whose love is letters
written in the sand, just above the rising
tide.
Temporary.
Destined from the very first stroke
to vanish within the whispering waves.
Each moment spent and each word spoken,
just a small granular speck of sand.
When put together it creates something beautiful
and once set underneath the
scathing
sight of sun burns with each step taken.
It doesn't take long before the wind,
the waves,
s c a t t e r
the letters away.

I've known people whose love is letters
written with such intensity 
there was no choice but to leave
scars on the walls of the spirit they left behind.
Graffiti
hastily applied before the artist
vanishes in the night.
No one can dismiss its beauty. As
beautiful as the individual who created it.
Permanent.
But sometimes, someone else can come along
an artist in his own right
gifted enough
to turn the scars into another piece of art.
Still scars,
still waves
r e a p p l i e d
the letters shifted.

I've known people whose love is letters
written in the simplicity of pencil.
The gray graphite given to children
specifically because erasers vanquish mistakes.
It can last.
It can remain.
Always resembling the original form.
The imprint can remain as long as the paper.
But in time, the actual words
fade.
It is always limited.
Pencil can't be seen or felt if the material can't
hold it.
When set against the hardened stone,
the lead is
b r o k e n
the letters disappear.

I've known people whose love is letters
written deeply in dark ink.
Not just your average BIC office pen.
Rather, a black and gold glitter pen.
Ink runs smoothly,
letters bubbly with
happy
hearts over the 'i's and 'j's.
Everything is perfect.
Everything is beautiful.
Each stroke, each caress leaves
a string of stunning cursive.
But then, with one mismovement
of an arm
a single hair falls,
and suddenly everything is ruined.
Just a moment before and it was perfect,
a masterpiece of Sistine Proportions.
Now all visible is an unrecognizable blur,
blob.
A glob of failure and
d i s a p p o i n t m e n t
the letters remain.

Me?
My love is letters
written in a perfectionist's first attempt at calligraphy.
With but one brush and one piece of paper,
each stroke is hesitant,
each movement is slow.
Perhaps
if I don't rush
then my letters can stay true.
I've heard calligraphy is an art of
precision
but to be truly skilled, speed is
necessary.
Ink can only dry one way.
Hesitancy can hinder the whole thing.
But I'll keep trying, keep writing.
Each strike has its purpose.
Each line,
each twirl,
grows firmer.
Confidence grows.
Each character is becomes
s t r o n g e r
the letters become.