Ever since I sent that poem in to be judged, I’ve found it hard to write. I figured, what’s the point of writing poetry when I don’t even know if I’m good?? It was ridiculous to think that, but I’m only human. After admitting this to a good friend of mine and having a long chat about writing and insecurities, I’ve written two new poems. This sounds like great news right?? Wrong. Both my new poems are different. It’s still my writing style, however they are raw, and they have the signature of the dark corner of my mind written all over them. Typically, I weave the true meaning of my poems through red herrings. I switch back and forth between flowery, deceptive words and the bare truth. This allows my audience to interpret my poems the way they see fit. However, one of my new poems is overly blunt, and the other is far too difficult to understand. I guess my midlife crisis is starting early haha.
Anyway, I had to tell that anecdote in order to lead into the real purpose of this post. My first step forward since sending my poem in was not starting to write again. It was starting to finalize. For my birthday (my birthday was six months ago), a fellow poet friend of mine got me a really nice journal. This journal, she told me, was for my finished works. Immediately I responded by saying that no poem is ever finished. Of course being a writer herself she already knew that. However, she wanted me to write the poems that were as finished as they could be in this book. That was six months ago and finally, two minutes ago (seriously), I wrote my name in that book. At last I claimed that journal with a few unsteady ink strokes across a sturdy page. I still don’t have any poems written in there, but hey it’s a first step right??