Roses are Red

29 Sep

Journey to poem

Rain pours down
From clouds the color of my soul
Or at least
The color I imagine my soul to be.
Rain drops
Whisper inspiration in my ear,
But I have long since
Given up listening to them.
All their ideas are gone
And all that I get from them
Is incoherent babble.
It’s been a long time
Since I could understand
The rain.

So here I sit again
With pen in hand.
And for every word that I write down
I scratch out another two.
And so goes the cycle
Of ink
Forming words on paper
Only to be covered
By more ink.

And yet I keep writing.
Though my fingers bleed
And my nails dig into my skin
Because I can’t
Even hold the pen right.
I keep on,
Writing words
And scratching them out
After so many ruined sheets of paper
And drops of blood
I finally have
A poem.

I never was much of a poet. I when I was little I would write some dumb stuff that sometimes rhymed and pretend it was poetry. It never was. I’ve naturally read some poetry, we all have. It’s never really resonated with me as it seems to with other people.

I think I’m too shallow for poetry. Poetry is supposed to be deep and meaningful. I can never seem to peer into its depths. I’ve taken several poetry courses and each was the same. I would sit, read or listen to the poem then listen to everyone else find symbolism in it that I would have never seen, and they not pointed it out. Afterwards it made sense, but while first looking at it, I never saw it. It was the same way with my own poetry.

In the literary arts we are required to take a beginning work shop of both fiction and poetry. So my second year of high school I started attempting to write poetry and be deep and what not. It didn’t go so well. Apparently I don’t even understand my own poetry, though it was always interesting to see how those more talented poets interpreted my work. At the end of the workshop my teacher told me which of my poems he liked best. He picked my elegy for my cat Smokey. I still don’t know why he liked it so much, but apparently it was good for a sophomore fiction writer. As I started the advanced workshop a year later, I found that apparently I put a lot more depth into my poems than I thought. The better poets always seemed to find something cool hidden in my poetry that I, naturally never thought of. And I, of course, just pretended it was what I’d intended to do all along.

I’m sorry to say that even I fell prey to the teen epidemic that was and is emo poetry. It wasn’t your classic, I hate everything, the world is a dark abyss, my life sucks, kind of poetry. It always had a focus of some sort. A lot of the times it was directed at my father, who I had issues with for several years. If not raving in stanza form about my daddy issues it was feeling alone, not the “no one understands” kind but the physical feeling of being alone. I was also in that stage were being normal meant having a boyfriend and since I didn’t have one I wrote love poems to him about meeting him and asking him to hurry up a little and come. Yeah, I was dumb. I also went through a phase where I would write poems for people’s birthdays. See the above statement.

Now I’ve pretty much just given up on poetry all together. I’ll read it now and again. There are a few that I really enjoyed from my days in 50 poems, but for the most part I steer clear. That’s the beauty of graduating. I’ll never have to write poetry again… I hope.

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Posted by on September 29, 2010 in Rants


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