general · me · poetry

Thoughts; Poetry and Me


And then I start thinking, what if I’m wrong? What if poetry nowadays should be like that?
And then I realize how utterly stupid my thoughts are!
Poetry should be pretty, aesthetically pleasing. Poetry should tell a story, cause emotion, link people to each other through similar feelings, shared experience.
Poetry is not senseless fragments of phrases and words forced to connect in ways even punctuation couldn’t save, if there was any!

Poetry that reads lines of rubbish like –

car went to the market to buy chandelier and napoleon died

– are not poetry. And then these people dare to tell me to cut down my already short poems to just the last lines.
What if I think the ‘prologue’ of the beginning is necessary?
What if I want to tell a story of a person talking to another, not just a third one giving a brief description of someone?
I would never go to another and tell them to cut their work. Especially if I myself had never learned how to form capital letters on a keyboard.

And then I get scared, upset, thinking I’ll never amount to anything.
Thinking it’s useless to try, even.

Especially if this is where poetry is going now.


Sometimes it hits me. Why am I still trying? It’s obviously not where my life will take me. I should start thinking about my future, of what I could do with my life. Something to do with this, or something totally different? So there would be no temptation – no regret.

It really seems like there’s not enough of that something in me, that something that would guide me through these periods of doubt and into the fantastic end result we’re all hoping for.
There’s not enough of that, but plenty of the other. That devious, deceptive, evil little power that brings me back to this when I tell myself I’d be better off concentrating my efforts on something else. That damned thing that tells me ‘but maybe’, when I already decided that ‘no’.

I don’t know what it is, but it has to be the most terrifying power I’ve encountered.
It won’t let me think of any other possible future. Any future that doesn’t lead to that one specific end result.
The one I’m still waiting for.



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