So, I was in a strange mood the other night. I was feeling emotionally raw, and decided that was a good time to go through old poetry — to read what I’ve already written, and to move through the final stages of my poetry-maturation process with the not-quite-done pieces (don’t ask).
What I found . . . well, firstly, it was a good thing that I was in a masochistic mood. Secondly, I found pieces that were . . . I don’t quite have words for what they are. But what I do know is that they might legitimately be some of the best I’ve ever written. They are also deeply personal, and I’m fighting the impulse to hide them away in the file-folder maze of my computer.
But, following close on the heels of the urge to tuck my vulnerable away came a small voice whispering that I can’t. That being a writer means bringing just that into the light of day — because the hurt it came from makes it vulnerable, but also real. It gives weight to the words.
So instead of hiding those past hurts behind humour and smiles and stories, I think I’m going to take a deep breath, find my courage, and expose them to the bit of light that is my own little corner of the internets.
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.