I have always been the kind of person who needs to write things out. Even a simple “to-do” list feels better coming out on a solid piece of paper and into my pocket.
I started writing poetry when I was about 10, or so. I can’t remember what inspired me to start doing so, it felt natural. I wish I had a better reason than that, but I just always found that writing poetry made sense. The kind of sense that isn’t really about “sense” at all. I do remember when I was about 13-ish I picked up “A Night Without Armour” –Jewel’s book of poetry. I was deeply affected by what I read, and at that moment, standing in the “poetry” isle of Novel Idea on 71st and Memorial in Tulsa, Oklahoma I fell in love with the idea of publishing my own book of poetry one day.
So it was poetry. Poetry gave me a feeling of peace and when I read it out loud, I felt powerful. Not a powerful like I felt better than other people…but a powerful like I understood other people. A power that creatively felt like I could make a difference by smashing my thoughts together and letting them manifest on a piece of tree. But, honestly, most of the stuff I wrote was crap. Like a big heaping pile of it. But it was mine…my crap and I was proud of it. And I still am.
found this from my poetry.com account-I wrote it when I was 14.
You make me feel all nervous inside
When I don’t know what to say I want to hide
But to look at you just one more time
Could it be? No not a crime
In your arms you hold me tight
I want to be with you day and night
And I’m trying hard to figure out what love Is all about
This feeling inside me makes me want to shout
I feel like I’m not good enough, for you, or anyone else
Why do i feel like this? Aren’t I supposed to be nice to myself?
I don’t mean to be shy,it’s just that I don’t know if yourTheRightGuy
See there’s just one more week to see your sweet face
And listen to your charming voice Do I really have to make a choice
Between A cute intellegent guy and A guy, who if I asked out
would never say yes?The thought on my mind makes me trip & fall
Into a big mess
This love thing, I don’t think is my deal
Because I don’t know how to tell you how I feel
I hope when I get married, whoever it may be to
That they love me, the way I love you
For the past few years I’ve been trying to get back in the habit of writing. I keep telling myself, “Hey you, write some more poetry…you weren’t all that bad.” But the best inspiration is usually pain, or at least, for me it is. And I haven’t felt pain like this, well, in about 3 1/2 years (see previous post about ending relationshits). So, it’s happening. I’m writing poetry. Is it good? Hell if I know. But one of my goals is to read some of it at Borders or some completely lame, generic place like that…so if I fall flat on my face at least I can hobble off quietly. I have a huge stage freight thing…so that would be a feat.
This is a recent one…be brutally honest. Something is better than nothing.
is for fake
if it were easy it would be boring
your teeth are falling out
I tasted them with my blue tongue
Laying down on a red gown
you say come here
I come here
familiar but fake
your body hasn’t changed
but my hands are different
heartbeat still beating
slightly off to the left and down a bit
f is for forget
forget all the wants the needs the fear the big dick the happy the frustration the loneliness the contempt the boredom the stomach the unforgettable devotion the trust the rust the oil the 30 seconds the rear the ferry the elephants the past three
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