Yesterday I pulled a couple of poems out of my bag, and actually showed them to someone.
She stared at the words on paper, stared and slowly nodded.
“This… sure looks like poetry to me,” she said. ” I mean I don’t know anything about poetry, but this looks like it.”
Hardly high praise, but it’s enough. Considering what pieces I chose a perfectly valid response could have been “This is gibberish” or “What have you been smoking?”, so that it’s even recognizable as poetry is a bit of a victory.
The words fall short, though. To call the pieces ‘poems’ feels entirely inadequate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that few would understand them either, though a sad fact it is. Regardless of what you think of the result, I need to keep writing.
Words of mine, though not my own. They are important.