#whyiwrite — Public Fediverse posts

THE WAGES OF SILENCE

He did not need to shout.

His voice was quiet—
the kind that lingers
long after the room is empty.

He spoke in warnings,
in looks,
in the space between
what was done
and what could be said.

And we learned quickly—
silence
was safer.

Or so it seemed.

Because silence
does not stay still.

It grows.

It wraps itself
around the throat,
settles in the chest,
teaches the body
how to keep quiet
even when it is breaking.

He walked freely
through our unsaid words,
unchallenged,
unseen—

made powerful
by what we carried
for him.

And I—
I held it too.

Like a secret
that did not belong to me.

Like a weight
I was told
was mine to bear.

Until I understood—

silence
is not always protection.

Sometimes,
it is the place
power hides.

—

THE WAGES OF SILENCE

He did not need to shout.

His voice was quiet—
the kind that lingers
long after the room is empty.

He spoke in warnings,
in looks,
in the space between
what was done
and what could be said.

And we learned quickly—
silence
was safer.

Or so it seemed.

Because silence
does not stay still.

It grows.

It wraps itself
around the throat,
settles in the chest,
teaches the body
how to keep quiet
even when it is breaking.

He walked freely
through our unsaid words,
unchallenged,
unseen—

made powerful
by what we carried
for him.

And I—
I held it too.

Like a secret
that did not belong to me.

Like a weight
I was told
was mine to bear.

Until I understood—

silence
is not always protection.

Sometimes,
it is the place
power hides.

—

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

To The Writer That Was

Oh, how I yearn 
to awaken the writer in me— 
to breathe life into these hands 
that once crafted symphonies. 

To let the artist break free 
from her formal shell, 
to summon the summer breeze 
and let creativity swell. 

But now my rhymes are rusty, 
my rhythm misplaced— 
the artist within me 
a distant, fading trace. 

Stories still linger, 
quiet and unsure, 
but where is my melody? 
Where is the voice I knew before? 

Where is the writer 
who once poured her soul 
into every word, 
into every whole? 

Have you been locked away, 
my dear friend, 
silenced by a mind 
that could not comprehend? 

Have you lost your way, 
or are you hiding 
from the light? 

I call out to you— 
return to me. 

For without you, 
life feels muted, 
a colorless sea. 

I miss the worlds 
we built with words, 
the hearts we touched, 
the truths we stirred. 

Each line a dance, 
each phrase alive— 
a quiet place 
where we could thrive. 

So come back to me, 
dear writer, 
come back and stay— 

and let us find ourselves again 
in what we choose to say. 

Returning to a creative self after a hiatus is both exciting and daunting. This poem is a personal call to the writer within me and a reminder to all who paused their passions to awaken what has been dormant.

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Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

#whyiwrite #amwriting #writing #writingadvice #writerslife inventingrealityediting.com/2...

Create Document to Build Your ...

#whyiwrite #amwriting #writing #writingadvice #writerslife inventingrealityediting.com/2...

Create Document to Build Your ...

#whyiwrite #amwriting #writing #writingadvice #writerslife inventingrealityediting.com/2...

Create Document to Build Your ...

When I first published my book, my author, book editor, and friend Frances A. Sales said, “Once the book is out there, it’s no longer yours; it belongs to the readers.”

So, I wrote another novel, then another after that. I didn’t give much thought to book sales; I just wanted to create something beautiful for readers. Perhaps, I hoped, my book might even make them fall in love all over again.

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#WhyIWrite

Cause it gets my thoughts out in front of my eyes.

Shout out to all the poets, scholars, novelists, playwrights, essayists, journalists, scientists and others cleaning up their current document.

#NationalDayOnWriting

#WhyIWrite I started writing books for myself when I was a child because I had trouble finding books I wanted to read. Stories of boys and their dogs didn't interest me. And w/ 40 self-published books I'm still writing today. #NationalDayOnWriting

More often than not, I can’t bring myself to criticize the right, because it’s so big, dumb, and obvious that I don’t see the point. So I concentrate on the minutia of the left in areas I think we can, and must, improve. I’m not MORE critical of the left, it’s just that I mostly dismiss the right out of hand. The left seems manageable and fixable, whereas the right does not.

If that makes any sense.

#WhyIWrite #RandomThoughts

I write because it's the best way I know to help the most people. #WhyIWrite #NationalDayOnWriting @[email protected]

My thoughts have more power on the page than in my head, even if they're thoughts about lasagna. #WhyIWrite