A Stash

I am incredible.

Every few weeks I have a fit because I am not a published poet, a catchy songwriter, a clever satirist, a leading activist. And I get this itch that urges me to start something fresh, exciting, meaningful!

Meanwhile folders and folders of writing sit abandoned on my laptop. Almost 200 poems, story ideas, prompts, half-baked ideas. Things that just need a little love.

And I feel like going back to these ideas is breaking some unspoken code of art. Like, they had their moment of inspiration, but that moment has passed. And so I sit and despair over a lack of motivation in the present.

Not only is that illogical, it’s also not getting me anywhere!

So with that, I’m going to go edit some of my poems.



I have to be personal.

What I consider to be my best works of poetry are far too personal for me to share with those I know, even acquaintances, or online under a known penname. Since I love writing and am so eager to share what I’ve got, I’ve considered taking my feelings and maybe displacing them, changing them, putting them into new characters or unrecognizable backdrops… Making stories that are just inspired by the things I feel and observe first-hand.


But I can’t do that.

When I take something real and fictionalize it, I don’t feel as close to it. It becomes less personal. And once that happens, it’s less important to me. I lose interest in sharing it.

Guess what, I’ma poet.

I have to wonder if anyone has any idea how much poetry I have written in the past few years.

My poetry is this weird external organ of my body, like an ear, but weirder. For how important it is to me, I really should back it up more often on my special flash drive. That being said, it terrifies me to share it with people I know, especially by reading it to them. And most especially if it is about them.

Poetry is weird, you know? At least, that’s the reputation it has. I realized when I was younger that everyone I adored would be much more receptive to my art if I made songs, instead. And hey, I play the guitar, so it should be easy, right? Except I’m bad at it. Writing comes naturally, but music is a task.

In short terms, I think my poetry is better than my music, so I never got around to that nomadic-folksinging career I always dreamed of.

So since poetry is weird, I have shown very little of it to anyone. The majority of it that was shared was shown to an online audience on deviantART.com. (It’s a safe haven. <3) I have only tried once to have poetry published, and the cost of submitting poems for consideration has deterred me from trying again.

I have vaguely considered this before, but now I am starting to feel a new urgency for the matter: I need to put my work “out there”, even send it to some magazines and other types of publishers. The only problem here is that I know my poetry means a lot more to me than it would to most because I write all of it for myself! How on Earth can I publish anything for an intended audience of myself? All I can say it that it’s going to have to be some pretty special and well thought-out piece for that to work…