Friday, October 21, 2011

I write poetry in fits and spurts—always have—allowing my emotions and life’s experiences to guide my creativity where they will.  I’ve written poems for as long as I can recall and have most of the ones I’ve scribed.  Every once in a while, I take a stroll down memory lane, treating myself to reading past poems I’ve written. 

Some of my poems are straight forward, allowing the reader a glimpse into the inner workings of my mind.  Others are mystified concoctions of seemingly disjointed thoughts that have no meaning.  But they do.  To me, they are clear-cut reminders of exact experiences or sentiments I felt as I made my way through life.

There are those to whom poetry is an exact science, not to be messed with.  A realm where writers shouldn’t dare to stray outside the acceptable rules of writing poetry.  But to me, poems should be free-flowing verses of ones innermost thoughts able to be translated by some but more often a lovely melodic flow of words strung together that convey thoughts, feelings and perceptions.

Poems can cause one’s soul to bleed.  Their mind to melt.  In some cases, poems can cause a person to question their very existence.  Their purpose.  Their wants, needs, desires.  To me, poems personify the very essence of a writer’s soul, for they are most often the byproduct of raw honesty that leaves vulnerable their creators.