The unwritten poem inside of my head screams silently,
“Claim me. Tell me. Tell me all. Imagine me. Imagine us. Say what it would be like. Ask anything. Inquire. Dig. Echo me. Inspire me. Wrap me in the warmth of your concern. Be above me, but lift me. Uplift me.”
Ever since I wrote my very first poem in the second grade, this internal war has raged like wildfire inside of me. The urge to excrete every pent-up emotion, every inch of pain, every suppressed sorrow. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that this newfound passion of mine would soon become my own personal source of medication whenever I would need it. And believe me, I would need it soon enough.
“Connect. Converse. Insist. Trust. Touch my face with your fingertips. Pretty us. Call. Respond. Create a bond. A deep bond. Find me. Open yourself to me. I ache to hear from you. Make me. Breathe me. Believe me. I am yours. Words are yours.”
I have come to discover the fact that poetry has become a vital component of my personality over the past few years. Anyone who has ever met me will verify that, yes, I am one of the more emotional people on this planet. I have so many feelings and thoughts and opinions that I do not always know how to express them in a way that will make sense to anybody, including myself. I started writing poetry because I needed a way to untangle these complex thoughts that I wrestle with every single day. I need poetry to be able to understand myself and what I am feeling at any given moment.
I write poetry because I ramble. When I speak I imagine myself saying the right thing, but I always end up saying the opposite. Or I just never make a point. Or I just talk to be loud, to prove that I am not some numbskull and that I know how to use words to make you think about some pretty deep, abstract things. But what really sucks about talking is that you can’t always plan what you are about to say. I somehow always end up saying something incredibly unimportant. See, I write poetry because I can say everything and actually take the time to think before I string these words together. And sometimes I even write poetry to force myself to say something. Anything. Sometimes I’m too afraid to speak because I’m afraid of sounding stupid, boring, unimportant...
“I write to dream of you. I write because I feel closer to you when I write. I write to prompt you to speak to me. I write to be asked. I write to begin a conversation.”
Recently, I ran into quite the sticky situation surrounding me and my poetry. As I have mentioned, I use poetry as a coping mechanism when things get a bit too hard to handle, and lately, I have been struggling greatly with an issue surrounding love (or lack thereof) which, to a poet, is comparable to winning some really screwed-up lottery. Naturally, in order to keep myself afloat, I poured every ounce of my heartache into page after page after page until I finally started to feel the chains around my wrists loosening. I had never been truly criticized for my writing in regards to the content before, so what happened next felt like a 10 ton blow straight into my stomach, knocking the wind out of my body...
“I write to call out to you. I write to be yours, to be you. I write.”
They told me to stop being so “dramatic,” said that my poetry was just as embarrassing as the fact that I was still dwelling over a subject that I clearly should have moved on from by now. And the worst part of it all? The one person in the entire world that I didn’t want to see my poems ended up reading every single one. See, the purpose of poetry is to relieve that dull ache in your chest when something goes awry. The purpose of poetry is to reach out to those struggling with similar situations and to provide a sense of comfort for them, because nobody deserves to trudge through turmoil under the impression that they are completely and hopelessly alone. The purpose of poetry is to express raw, unadulterated, uncensored emotion. And that is exactly what I did.
“Tell me what I should write. Request. Demand. Insist. Spell it out. Tell me how I can be of service to you. I am available. Avail of me.”
Some people out there might disagree with the content of my poems and how painfully honest some may be, but invalidating MY OWN personal emotions and experiences does nothing but allow me to feel them more intensely. Nobody on this planet is allowed to tell someone what they do and do not feel. That is a given. To tell a person that their feelings are too “dramatic,” “sensitive,” “depressing,” “brash” and just plain “mean” is terrible. In poetry there is no audience. You have that one person you are writing to. One person to impress. The truth to writing? It is personal. It is intimate. If you write it for a certain everybody, you will lose the sincerity.
“I write to offer myself. Will you claim me. Tell me. Tell me all. Tell me why. Tell me why I write.”
I write poetry to survive the sinking night in which my pen buzzes and flickers like a bulb in a damaged circuit.
And sometimes sparks escape from that state of ‘damage’ and set the night on fire.
