I have not been actively posting poetry or anything for a while, partly because of time, but mostly because I think something else is happening.
Something deeper and more transformative within myself…
I feel like I’ve reached a point in life where my own thoughts are slowly reshaping themselves, and it has had an impact on my ability to write like my old self. Or, as you might notice in the afterthought… more like sharing like my old self. It’s not that I don’t believe in love or things like that, but it now feels inexplicably different and its also very vulnerable to be a poet on the internet, and I still don’t know whether that change or shift in my thinking is good or bad.
Anyway, I will probably return to the same format as in my older poetry posts, where I first write a small poem and then follow it with a short blog post.
1. Existential Crisis
Who do I write for now
Me or you, or the past that haunts me
Do I want to write to be read and seen,
or do I just want to be understood or known?
Am I that self-pitying
that I wash my dirty laundry on the internet,
or is it simply to remain sane,
or comfort myself… someone else?
Honestly, I don’t know anymore
where I land as a writer and a creator.
Am I having an existential crisis,
or is this the moment where a woman grows up?
Because, truthfully,
I don’t even know what my niche is anymore.
Is it childlike love, romance, and emotional depth that I am after,
or is it looking within myself
and analyzing every thought…
something I have been scared to do publicly,
just in case what I find
is core-shakingly thought provoking…
Is this truly an existential crisis of a writer,
or is it something people go through regardless?
Does such a thing even exist,
or am I just getting old
and developing a conscience?
Am I, as a writer, even allowed
to exist in a space where my poetry no longer serves a purpose,
to be artsy, mysterious, lovely,
read by the right people… maybe?
Or can I have a place
where I don’t turn my love or my pain
into something overly dramatic,
a pathetic ode to what could have “beens”
and the past I did not deserve
but still have to live with.
Can I even write from a place of honesty
without being a burden?
Because, truthfully,
I am not easy to swallow,
and neither is my poetry.
I am a colossal oversharing pain in the arse,
because people like me
are not strong in hiding.
Am I even allowed
to be myself when I create?
I think I am scared
of becoming one of those
rambling old cynical women,
studying computer science while preaching she is
independent,
yet at night I am screaming at my dude
if he dares to take away his hand from my head.
Men…
Poetry on the Margins #1 Afterthought
For most of my life, I have anchored my poetry and all of my creativity to a certain harbor: love, pain, things that either hurt or felt like ecstasy. It came from a place where I, like anyone else, felt many things I had no control over… I needed somewhere to put those feelings. I suppose it was something like that. Now I wonder whether I still have a voice when I have made peace with things I cannot, or do not have the ability to, change. What could have “beens” follow me around but I still think I have the power to change something and be happy regardless.
There are certain aspects of life that I feel happier writing into a folder on my laptop rather than sharing here. And what remains, I still don’t know if I am comfortable putting it out into the world, partly because my writing is never entirely about me, it affects people around me. So, this little introduction piece might be the most vague and boring thing I have ever written. But I had to start somewhere, because I feel like my blog has been collecting dust here like an old house. When did I become so shy about my creations?
I feel like, in this poem itself, I’m lying if I say I have lost my depth or my niche. I feel it changing, and I am not entirely comfortable with the level of honesty and rawness in my writing now. Part of me wants to dress it up somehow, but whenever I try, it feels pointless, like if I hid myself behind fancy words… there would be no reason to write at all. But I have hidden myself behind fancy words my entire writing life, and so I am creating this difficult problem in my head. Can I just write? Can I just write and still have the balance of privacy in my life and for those around me?
I mean, words can be painful. They can hurt people. I don’t want to hurt people. I want to wrap up the people I adore and take care of them as if they were little kittens. So I don’t think the last part about becoming a cynical old woman is true in that case.
Hmm, I feel like my afterthoughts are stronger than the poetry itself. Or that my university essays contain more analytical thought than anything I have written before. A part of me wonders whether that might be my new voice. Hmm. Can one analyze the meaning of life, love, and such in poetry? Or will it make the readers’ heads ache too?
So I am going to actually explore my writing voice here and give up on deadlines and such for the sake of being liked by Mr Google Bot. So, it won’t probably even have a story line or anything in particular. And if you experience a headache or something, take Ibuprofen or such. Sorry.
Space for the AdSense ads
Links to more of my work:
If you like reading an emotionally packed short story here you can find multiple of them: Six-Sentence Stories, Short Stories, Romance and All That, Dead Poet
And a brand new addition to my poetry tab: On the margins of the First Draft
My band “Chaos in Spring” can be listened to on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.
0 Comments