Thank you, Poetry

I’m a big believer in Pinterest, but don’t let that throw you off. While it has introduced me to a fair share of apartment aesthetics that I’ll be implementing next year, that doesn’t mean that my search bar is only filled with popular searches like “craft ideas” or “minimalist home decor.” No, my feed actually consists of an overflow of quotes and poetry by writers like Beau Taplin, r.h. Sin, and Atticus. I started a poetry board about a year ago as a joke, but now that board has over 365 saved poems. It’s not like I have 365 different emotions, but hey if I did, I guess I’d have a poem that would fit it. 

As a naturally introspective person (cues the Myers-Briggs INFJ personality description), I heavily rely on reflection as a way to analyze my thoughts and feelings. Reflection served as my main method of self-growth and poetry quickly became a process to “check-in” with myself. When I first started reading poetry though, it truly was for fun: a place to encounter different styles of writing, not necessarily something meaningful. 

I suppose it started that way because whenever I was going through something painful, I turned to my friends and family for help. Venting about my problems was an effective way to relax my mind and prepare myself for whatever I needed to deal with. Looking back at it now, I probably felt that way because confiding in someone about my situation helped me acknowledge that my feelings were real. It was another method of connection, and it was one that I sincerely valued. However, about a year and a half ago, I had a conflict with someone that rendered me unable to describe my feelings to my friends because I thought that I would be breaking that person’s trust. For someone who was so used to communicating their feelings, this situation genuinely made me feel helpless because I could no longer turn to the one outlet that had helped me so many times before. 

In a state of angst, I decided to try journaling, desperately hoping that it would shed some light on my problem. I figured that since I was pretty eloquent when it came to talking about any issues, writing about them would be easy. I was dead wrong. There were several days where I stared aimlessly at the paper, getting no further than a meager “dear diary” scribbled in the top margins. I felt uncomfortable and believed that what I was writing wasn’t right (as if there was a right way to describe your thoughts in the first place). I began to feel lonelier and more anxious, and all of my overthinking almost had me spiraling out of control. But I realized that even if I struggled with putting my thoughts down into words, there had to be someone out there who didn’t. 

Starting with a basic Pinterest search like “poetry about regret,” I uncovered a whole new world. I found connection and solace in the words of those poets, and just knowing that there were so many people out there who felt the same things that I did became an immense source of validation. Poetry quite literally saved me from the distressed state I had been in for so long. I think the reason why I fell in love with poetry so easily is that it’s permanent. Our emotions are fleeting, but those words are there forever. 

The more I immersed myself in poetry, I understood that the poets weren’t trying to impress anyone. Their writing styles didn’t mimic that of a Nobel Laureate, but it still left the same impact. These poets write for themselves, to comprehend their own emotions, and to question their doubts and fears. This realization emboldened me enough to start writing poetry. It’s not something that I consider myself to be good at, but then again, who cares? I write for me–to remind myself of how far I’ve come and grown. Initially while writing, I still felt judged and so I was scared to let anyone read my work. But if every poet had thought like that, then what would I have read to help myself? With this in mind, I want to leave off with something that I’ve written. Even if there’s no one who needs to hear it, I feel a little braver just by putting it into the world. 

when they ask you what i was like, 

i hope that you struggle to answer. 

i am not simple enough to be described 

by adjectives like nice or caring. 

compare me to the strength of a lion 

and the warmth of a crackling fire. 

for when your mouth that once lied so effortlessly 

begins to stammer,

you’ll realize that you’ll never find someone like me again. 

-truth