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.
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…
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2 Comments
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!!!