I started writing poetry in high school. Mostly for myself, to deal with my teenage angst. Some for Creative Writing class, where my teacher said to me, ‘you are one of the most talented poets I’ve had in my classes, but also the most immature’. That has stuck with me ever since. By no means do I consider myself all that talented, I just enjoy it. I also don’t consider myself to be all that immature, but it’s possible. But it made me think that the two were connected. Maybe the writing comes easier to me because of my immaturity. It affects my outlook on life, my view on things, my feelings about matters, my thoughts about circumstances. I don’t imagine much has changed in the many years since then. I have hardly written since then. About a year ago, I had some intense personal stuff happen that jump started this creativity in me again. I’ve found it a way to voice, vent and work through my thoughts, feelings and problems. A form of therapy. I never shared my writtings, I am shy and my poems are very personal, like diary entities. I took a risk and opened them up to a friend. It actually felt good to share. Getting feedback has inspired me to try to experiment with different forms and approaches. The beautiful part of it was seeing it spark inspiration in him. He started to write poetry, some of it quite amazing. Seeing even a small amount of spark come from my lowly words has been a true gift, which has prompted me to share more publicly.
Most of my words are from the dark, twisted and depressed parts of my mind that I am afraid to verbalize. Bleeding out ink is easier for me.
…here is where some of my immature writings will lie…
poeticfootprints 