I haven’t been actively posting poetry or anything for a while—partly because of time, but mostly because I haven’t been getting along with my imagination lately. Too many of my poems were directed at people in my life, and I felt it was better to stay quiet on the blog, as that kind of writing can be disruptive.
I had some past traumas I was healing from, and being a poet can sometimes leave you vulnerable if the work is too honest. I truly felt it was too honest to share—unlike the rest of my blog—and that it could have hurt people in my circle.
But I feel like I’ve found that spark again, creating from a place that makes my stories feel as if they are deeply personal while still being mostly fiction.
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…
There's more of my work:
If you like short stories I have them scooped up into one category (including the six-sentence stories).
The Nervous Poet at the SSC&B can be followed here.
There is also poetry.
More personal entries can be found at the Blog.
There's also the IT studies blog in Estonian and "Chaos in Spring" on YouTube, Spotify and other streaming services.
how very very insightful…. finding myself stopping… contemplating… chewing.. start again… really enjoyed your post… first time here i believe… i find writing to be a state of freedom… and the poetry world on the net has been enlightening,.. think, speak, write… if i linger too long i can’t write… look forward to more visits…
Thank you so much for stopping by, am happy you liked it. I don’t remember seeing you either all those years ago when I was active on the blog-hop but I may just not remember, I really enjoyed your six and the poetry I did read a lot too! And am so happy someone found my poetry too!!!