Pages From My Journalโ€”Coming Septemberโ€™21

An actual entry from my journal (swiped to see typed version) to be included in my debut book-

๐Ÿ“„โ€๐๐š๐ ๐ž๐ฌ ๐…๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐Œ๐ฒ ๐‰๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง๐š๐ฅโ€ ๐Ÿ“„
๐–ฒ๐–พ๐— ๐—๐—ˆ ๐–ป๐–พ ๐—‹๐–พ๐—…๐–พ๐–บ๐—Œ๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐–ฒ๐–พ๐—‰๐—๐–พ๐—†๐–ป๐–พ๐—‹ ๐Ÿค๐Ÿข๐Ÿค๐Ÿฃ
โœ๐Ÿพ
๐–จ ๐—๐–บ๐—‡๐—๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐—๐—ˆ ๐—€๐—‚๐—๐–พ ๐–บ ๐—…๐—‚๐—๐—๐—…๐–พ ๐—€๐—…๐—‚๐—†๐—‰๐—Œ๐–พ ๐—‚๐—‡๐—๐—ˆ ๐—๐—๐–บ๐— ๐—๐–บ๐—Œ ๐–ผ๐—ˆ๐—‡๐—Œ๐—Ž๐—†๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐—Œ๐—ˆ ๐—†๐—Ž๐–ผ๐— ๐—ˆ๐–ฟ ๐—†๐–พ ๐—…๐–บ๐—๐–พ๐—…๐—’.

๐–จ ๐—๐–บ๐—๐–พ ๐–ญ๐–ค๐–ต๐–ค๐–ฑ ๐—๐—ˆ๐—‹๐—„๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐—ˆ๐—‡ ๐–บ ๐—‰๐—‹๐—ˆ๐—ƒ๐–พ๐–ผ๐— ๐—๐—๐–บ๐— ๐—‚๐—Œ ๐—Œ๐—ˆ ๐—๐—‚๐—†๐–พ ๐–ผ๐—ˆ๐—‡๐—Œ๐—Ž๐—†๐—‚๐—‡๐—€, ๐—‹๐–พ๐—Š๐—Ž๐—‚๐—‹๐–พ๐—Œ ๐—†๐—ˆ๐—‹๐–พ ๐—ˆ๐–ฟ ๐—๐—๐–บ๐— ๐–จ ๐—Œ๐—ˆ๐—†๐–พ๐—๐—‚๐—†๐–พ๐—Œ ๐–ผ๐–บ๐—‡ ๐—ˆ๐–ฟ๐–ฟ๐–พ๐—‹, ๐–บ๐—‡๐–ฝ ๐—ˆ๐—๐—๐–พ๐—‹ ๐—€๐—‹๐—‚๐–พ๐—๐–บ๐—‡๐–ผ๐–พ๐—Œ ๐—๐—๐–บ๐— ๐–จโ€™๐—† ๐—‡๐—ˆ๐— ๐—€๐—ˆ๐—‚๐—‡๐—€ ๐—๐—ˆ ๐–ป๐—ˆ๐—‹๐–พ ๐—’๐—ˆ๐—Ž ๐—๐—‚๐—๐—.

๐–จ ๐—๐—‚๐—…๐—… ๐—Œ๐–บ๐—’ ๐—๐—i๐—Œ ๐—๐—๐—ˆ๐—Ž๐—€๐—, th๐—‹๐—ˆ๐—Ž๐—€๐— ๐–บ๐—…๐—… ๐—๐—๐–พ ๐—Ž๐—‰๐—Œ ๐–บ๐—‡๐–ฝ ๐–ฝ๐—ˆ๐—๐—‡๐—Œ, ๐—Œ๐—๐—‚๐—…๐—… ๐–จ ๐—€๐–พ๐—‡๐—Ž๐—‚๐—‡๐–พ๐—…๐—’ ๐–ผ๐—ˆ๐—Ž๐—…๐–ฝ ๐—‡๐—ˆ๐— ๐–ป๐–พ ๐—†๐—ˆ๐—‹๐–พ ๐–พ๐—‘๐–ผ๐—‚๐—๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐—๐—ˆ ๐—Œ๐—๐–บ๐—‹๐–พ ๐—๐—๐—‚๐—Œ ๐—๐—‚๐—๐— ๐–บ๐—…๐—… ๐—ˆ๐–ฟ ๐—’๐—ˆ๐—Ž.

๐–ณ๐—๐—‚๐—Œ ๐–ป๐—ˆ๐—ˆ๐—„ ๐—‚๐—Œ ๐–บ ๐—…๐—‚๐—๐–พ๐—‹๐–บ๐—… ๐—‰๐—‚๐–พ๐–ผ๐–พ ๐—ˆ๐–ฟ ๐—†๐–พ ๐–บ๐—‡๐–ฝ ๐–จ ๐–ผ๐–บ๐—‡โ€™๐— ๐—๐–บ๐—‚๐— ๐–ฟ๐—ˆ๐—‹ ๐—’๐—ˆ๐—Ž ๐–บ๐—…๐—… ๐—๐—ˆ ๐—๐—ˆ๐—…๐–ฝ ๐—†๐–พ ๐—‚๐—‡ ๐—’๐—ˆ๐—Ž๐—‹ ๐—๐–บ๐—‡๐–ฝ๐—Œ.

๐–ฒ๐—๐–บ๐—’ ๐—๐—Ž๐—‡๐–พ๐–ฝ ๐–ฟ๐—‹๐—‚๐–พ๐—‡๐–ฝ๐—Œ.
๐–ณ๐—๐–พ be๐—Œ๐— ๐—‚๐—Œ ๐—’๐–พ๐— to ๐–ผ๐—ˆ๐—†๐–พ โœ๐Ÿพ
.
.
.

From Writer To Published Writer And The Fear That Comes With It…

Do you remember the first time your work was shared somewhere other than between the lines of your journal?

Or the semi perfectly formatted pages of your website?

I guess technically we are published writers every time we become brave enough to let our words take shape on its own, releasing them from the pages we keep them captive on.

However it’s a bit different receiving an email informing you, that the poem that you submitted has been published on someone else’s website or in their book, or wherever else we loosened our grip enough to watch our words travel.

I GOT THAT EMAIL YESTERDAY!!

I am a published writer!!!

I am a published writer. Like an actual published writer.

It was surreal to scroll down and see MY bio under my poem on someone else’s website. You can see my featured poem here on PhoebeMD

It was also very scary…and before you think I’m crazy let me explain why.

For years, writing has been the one thing to remain constant in my life. No matter the length of the hiatus between us, I could always come right back to it. Comfortably-with no awkwardness and resume right from where I left off as if I had never left at all.

My journals never judged me about the ways in which I coped. I was never made to feel less than or labeled the “black friend” as if that was all I had to offer the world. Writing was/is/and will always be MY SAFE PLACE.

With that being said, deciding to open up my home-where I feel the safest-to other writers, and really the world is both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying.

What if this becomes something I no longer enjoy doing?

What if I get caught up in the superficial things and I no longer feel safe writing down the stories begging to be told?

Those are some scary thoughts and they are with me constantly….

Want to hear how I deal with those thoughts and how I try to keep my writing as sacred as the day I opened up my first black and white composition book?

Tune in next Monday to an all new episode of the iHaveWrites Podcast as we discuss the fears surrounding the things we love the most.

spilled

Pages in my journal filled with spilled ink

Teapots and kettles whistle at me for more

-The pressure I feel to say the right thing-

As the whistle grows louder, I write faster

Conveying words as if they were me

Strong and black

Spilled ink is nothing more than a mess

Unless spilled with the intention to heal

And now that I am empty

My audience is full

They whistle no more

Ready to pour out and fill the cup of another

Where Innocence Once Grew

Do you know of the place where innocence grows

Can I go back to the before 

So that my first time can actually be my first time

And not the time after the time we donโ€™t speak about 

A week without the pit in my stomach that grows darker every time I pass a man with blue eyes

The soil beneath me is rotten

There is no growth happening here

I am trying to make a way out of a path Iโ€™ve never traveled

So that the feet that follow behind me have a chance to make it

When given the chance take it

Or else itโ€™ll take you

Your dress will become the yes you never gave permission to

The reason you refuse to pour into me should be the reason you quench my thirst

I am empty 

Drained by the vultures who prey on unopened boxes

The jewels that made me sparkle were gone before I even knew they could shine

I am empty

Do you know the place where innocence grows

Can I go back to the before

Where Innocence Once Grewย ยฉ 2021 Candice Leigh

Be sure to like, share, and comment if time allows. I’d love to hear what you think!!

Click here to read about how you can send in your poem to be featured as the poem of the week!!