I write everything. I have written stories, plays, poems, essays, blogs, articles…if it can be made with words I have tried it, and that includes some collages I made out of newspaper articles. I read everything. I have no one favorite genre, and I love fiction and nonfiction equally. I consume words and would always rather read the article than watch the video. But of all the things I read, and all the things I write, there’s none like poetry.
I’ll admit I found most poetry boring as a child. A few classics stood out to me, and I did enjoy the ones that rhyme, but mostly I found it to be a little “what’s-the-point?” It wasn’t until I was an angsty high schooler that I discovered why poetry was invented: to speak for the soul. I was instructed to write a poem for English class. I don’t remember what it was about, but I do know that several days later I had purchased a purple notebook that I filled with poems I wrote, and quotes I found from books and music. I listen to everything, much like I read and write everything, but a song with powerful lyrics is always preferable to me. I feel that lyrics are today’s poetry, which I feel is a dying art.
I see some people keep it alive however, and this pleases me. I used poetry to express myself all through my adolescence and young adulthood. As I hit thirtyish, I stopped writing as much, but of all I have written, there is more poetry than anything. So, I decided to do something with it.
When I was about eighteen I had a couple poems published in anthologies though the former poetry.com, and figured why not try something like that again? What’s stopping me? So I took a handful of poems I didnt think completely sucked, and I reworked them a little, and I sent them to some online publications. I neither know nor care if anything comes of this, though of course it would be lovely to be featured. I just did it because if I didn’t, I would have wondered “what if,” and that is one of my least favorite emotions. I would always rather know for certain. I did it because once upon a time there was a fearless girl inside of me who thought nothing of sending a poem out to be read. A girl who let friends borrow that purple notebook because they wanted to read the words she had written. That girl is still in there under years of neuroses and the general living of life. That girl writes my poems, and she’s not nearly as shy as I am.