Poetry is difficult, and I understand that as well as anyone. I’m guilty of not reading the craft of condensed literary art– I’m too busy making my own. I don’t think that’s a crime, though I do feel as though I need a little push and pull in that reading and writing relationship (as it pertains to poetry).
As that thought rolls through my mind, I make another excuse for myself. To read one’s poetry is to peer into their psyche at that moment in time. Some poems have been dashed out and you can feel the emotion dripping from the page. Some are meticulously molded and caressed until they’ve become their own emotion, their own being. I appreciate it all, I truly do. So I’ve decided that since I’m a 22 year-old artist, my time is best spent inward and focused upon the constant reinforcement of my personal craft.
By this point, my early inspirations are solid. So now I must draw from that insane bird’s nest in my neocortex. This excuse placates me considerably. I will read poetry in time, when my own creations are living and breathing among the others in the community. An author only truly realizes his / her potential when their word babies are sent off to frolic in the playground with their peers. Then the responsibility shifts to maintaining a comfortable level of awareness; keeping an eye out in the neighborhood.
In summation, I will continue to write poems. Poems are fun, lovely, colorful, evocative, rhythmic, short, comical, universal, tragic, satirical, whatever you want them to be. They’re fucking brilliant, pardon my French. I’m a bubble in this world, and my poems still reside there. I’m grateful to my reader base (Yes, I’m talking to you!) for gracing my page with your presence. You are the reason I strive to create innovation and invent new language. You. I hope to speak with more of you in the future, to give my gifts to you.
I love this place called Earth, this unfolding forum of higher ambitions that won’t cease as long as we take our responsibilities as thinking beings seriously.