I didn’t know that I could write poems.
I knew that I loved poems before I knew what a poem was, but I didn’t know that I could write them.
I first knowingly wrote a poem when I was seventeen and was told that I was quite good at it. I entered a few competitions and did quite well. Within a few months, I’d written a handful of decent-ish poems. Decent enough.
I wasn’t very happy at that time of my life.
I was struggling a lot. I tried, more than once, to find help but it didn’t ever work out. I felt things far too deeply and had somehow become numb to feeling at the same time.
Writing poetry wasn’t an outlet for me; it was pressure.
It was me, by myself, thinking about myself. Surrounded by myself. And I did not want to be myself. I didn’t want to be anyone. I didn’t want to think.
After those few months, aged seventeen, I stopped writing.
Life got harder, problems became bigger, and escalated to a point where myself and those around me could not ignore them.
Slowly, more recently, life got better.
Aged twenty-four, I wanted to get more involved in poetry again. I remembered that I had loved it. I remembered how to love it.
I started going to open mic nights. Sometimes I thought they were silly, but I always adored them.
I still couldn’t write. There was too much in my head and I didn’t want to listen to it. I didn’t want to sift through it; I didn’t want to organise it; I didn’t want to beautify it.
Now, aged twenty five and a half, I am writing poems again.
For the first time since I was seventeen.
I am still struggling but life is the best it has been. I am the me-est me I have been.
I don’t feel strong everyday, but everyday I do know that I am.
I am enjoying this.
I don’t know how long it will last. I don’t know how many ideas I have left. I don’t know how many ways there are to rearrange the words in my limited vocabulary. I don’t know how I’ll feel in the future. But, for now, I am enjoying this.
I hope that you are enjoying this too.
Thank you for reading, thank you for listening and thank you for your support.
How did I start writing again?
I call it “Bad poetry reverse advent”. It is silly. But, if you like, I’ll tell you about it next time I do one of these blog posts.