But the more poetry I read and the more I networked with fellow poets, the more I thought, Or…maybe the opposite could happen. There’s a chance my family and friends may reach out and say Hey…was that about me? How dare you! I could be ostracized from get-togethers and never invited to anything ever again. Some deem it too complicated or too simple too long or too short. There’s a chance that many will read my book and chalk it up as nonsense, a cry for help, or junk that belongs in a fire. The truth is, maybe people won’t understand my poetry. The first time I started reading my poetry with intentions to publish I thought, What is wrong with me? How am I going to release these words into the world? How is anyone going to understand them? That’s it, I’m going away-they’re going to commit me. Is there anything more terrifying than reading some of your most personal thoughts? Confessions that you thought were gone, out of your head, never to be spoken of again, are now painted in word form before you. Yikes. These are the challenges I’ve faced so far. Read it, edit it, analyze it, format it…and not throw it away. When I decided to work towards publishing my poetry a few months ago I realized something terrifying–I had to re-read my poetry. I’ve ripped more poems in half than I can recall, torn pages out of diaries that I deemed unacceptable and inappropriate to reveal to the world. If I did read them, generally in moments of boredom or organizational spits, I usually found myself embarrassed or shocked, ultimately disgusted by my inner thoughts. I would write them, hide them, or flip right by them without a second glance. The publishing side is what I was not at all prepared for.Īs a closet poet for so long, I rarely ever revisited the poems I conjured. But there’s writing poetry, and there’s publishing poetry. Sounds pretty romantic and glamorous, and it can be. I sit on my wooden staircase while everyone sleeps, armed with my journal and just a hint of light, emptying my mind onto paper until I can breathe again. Most of the time, inspiration comes during the night, when the darkness sparks creativity buried within. Poetry comes to me in fits of rage, holes of depression, fleeting moments of lust, times of loss, sorrow, self-reflection.
I’ve been writing poetry for decades, verses jotted down when emotions run too high. Writing a poetry book is not as glamorous as I anticipated it to be.
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