I Was a Poet Once...

...although I'm not sure if we could really consider me a poet. I did write poetry though; not a day went by when I did not collect my thoughts on paper in some form. I miss those days. Expression through writing was an important part of my life, and I think because I focused so much on putting my pen to paper virtually every day, I allowed myself to feel more. Oh yes, there was probably more angst (seriously, what teenager/young adult doesn't experience that anyway), but I also think I lived more because of it. Don't get me wrong, I have little desire to return to the days of yore (but deep down inside, I want to go back to high school just so I can read more books and write more papers- I am a nerd in the truest sense), and I love my life now. I just miss writing, and I miss sharing my words with others. Allowing someone else to read the words you penned is something beautiful; yes, you are completely and utterly vulnerable, but you also know the joys of liberation.

I've thought about posting some of my past poetry (nice alliteration, I might add, although totally unplanned), and I in fact did post a poem I wrote my sophomore year of high school. But I seem to abandon ideas if my few faithful readers don't consider my words 'comment worthy', and since that particular post garnished zilch in terms of comments, I didn't post any more of my work. I'm working hard to rid myself of this need for comments; I'm trying to remember that I'm writing this blog not for the achievement of comments and feedback from family, friends, and yes, even the occasional internet stranger, but for myself. Chronicling bits and pieces of our life is important, but writing (of the creative variety and not the 'research and detail-oriented grants for small non-profit' variety) makes me...well, me.

So, don't be alarmed if you see a poem or short story wheedle its way into my blog. I'll be a little less brave and begin with another poem from high school, originally published in the literary magazine Camenae.

Broken Again

Anticipation fills the air
as a fragile little boy
anxiously awaits the putter
of the old, familiar engine.

A pair of headlights
appears from around the bend,
making the butterflies in his stomach soar
as his eyes sparkle with hope.

With every second
his longings draw nearer,
and his mind whirls
with broken promises
and unsatisfied dreams.

The headlights fly past him-
not even slowing-
smashing his dreams
once again.