So I write poems. A lot of them. In fact, I have over 500 poems saved on two different computers (desktop and laptop). I would’ve had somewhere between 700-800 except a year or so ago one of my other computers crashed (and ultimately died) and I wasn’t able to recover everything…including some poems I’d saved in Word.
My poems are different than my novel writing and because of that I’m very protective over them. I’ll gladly hand off a draft of a novel I’ve been working on to someone. “Go ahead, tear it apart,” I’ll tell them. Hey, I’ll even throw in the red pen! Anything, if you’ll just read it.
My poems? Not so much.
My poems are my diary. I started doing this when I was probably around 14 or so, maybe younger. Instead of writing journal entries about what was going on, I’d just write poems. They’re almost always over dramatic and they chronicle every heartbreak, every new start, every everything.
When I reread them, it’s like stepping into a time warp because suddenly I’m 18 again and I’m miserable trying to adjust to my freshman year at college without my friends. Or I’m 20 and my heart is breaking in a way that I didn’t know human hearts could break. I’m 22 and I’m moving to a new city and anything possible. I’m absorbed in these poems. Because they’re almost a part of me, in a way, extensions of myself.
I never wrote them to be “good poetry.” I’ve never taken a creative writing class or anything like that. I’d don’t claim to be a prose wordsmith (my songwriter sister has claim on that). I wrote them just to get it out. Sometimes if I can just get out how I feel on a page, then I feel better. The act of expressing is such a powerful one. But mostly I’ve kept it a private one.
One guy I knew read a couple of them once and said they could be songs. I’m pretty sure he was just saying nice things because we were dating at the time. I don’t know. I doubt they could be songs. I don’t really know what they are. They’re just… written.
Maybe I’ll post them sometime and give everyone more perspective on me. Then again…maybe not. Maybe knowing that I write them is enough?
Originally posted on Caitlin’s Tumblr