I was looking through my writing folder, searching for a few “works in progress,” when I randomly decided to click on the folder that said Poetry. I really wasn’t sure what I’d find. As I scrolled down the list, I noticed that the dates on the folders were more than a few years old. It looked like much of what I’d written was done during my college years. In fact, looking at the titles, I had forgotten that I’d written most of them. I’d forgotten how many I had written, too.
There were poems about love, about loneliness. There were poems that were sad and poems that were riddled in angst. When I read them, it felt like I was discovering someone new, someone I only vaguely remembered. It was weird, peaking at my mindset back then. It felt like I was intruding. It felt like, “Oh, I shouldn’t be reading these.” A couple of them even made me cringe, too.
I wouldn’t call my poems outstanding or excellent, but they were incredibly persuasive. They were incredibly personal. You could tell they were written with intense introspection and emotion. My words were revealing, even if they weren’t quite accurate.
I don’t know why I haven’t written as much poetry as I used to. It isn’t something that I go to often, or have an overwhelming desire for. I feel to write poetry, I need to be in a certain mood. I have to be tremendously moved. It’s like having a volatile mix of anxiety and enthusiasm in my stomach. I have to feel like I’m about to burst if I don’t get those flowery and ambitious stanzas out of my head. Honestly, I haven’t felt that way in a long time. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. But it’s nice to know that once upon a time, I was a poet, even if I wasn’t a very good one.