Nice

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So I’ve finally come to the realisation that the first two thousand or so poems that I have written were no more than my very own introduction to poetry writing, that while I have managed to sell quite a few on commission as well as having incurred many people who have come to appreciate and, in some cases even, love my style, most importantly they have added to my strengths in terms of being able to try and decipher between a good poem and one that can lose its legs. And that is completely alright, this wasn’t supposed to be a simple endeavour by any stretch of the imagination, so to speak, and I have seriously enjoyed writing and constructing many of them for what they now are. I finally get the part where people say a true poet needs to love writing their own poems, to actually appreciate and nurture them for their strength in depth and otherwise. Not feeling the need to write a line to make another person happy with it is important too, to absolutely see that even if you can indeed write, it doesn’t necessarily mean that your particular words are going to soar and entice a million people. Hell, any people for that reason. It’s a serious learning process and to have gotten to stand and read certain poems at coffee shops is quite an accomplishment. The feedback has, all in all, been great, certainly something I as a writer needed so as to have the confidence to continue on. Yes it can be hard when you write something that falls on deaf ears, but there are millions of different minds out there who will take to a style of poet and their writing in entirely separate ways. So to continue on and to try and be proud of my attempts so far is important, to enjoy the struggle to find that much needed acknowledgement for myself. Here’s to hoping the next two thousand plus poems are a little more polished and driven for their worth and are spread over a period of longer than three and a half years. I need a life that can lend itself to more than fiction too. I do worry about my punctuation but that is why editors exist. I fret about why it is I cannot seem to truly imagine poems as well as stories from books up inside of my head.  To get a flair is important and often I have felt it there although at other times none too much.  I see and read about the likes of Maya Angelou and think, why should I not have that too, which is crazy hopeful as she was undeniably blessed with the flair.  However,  that isn’t to say that all of her poetry and writing is unputdownable, in fact far from it, but that’s it, my couple of thousand poems have churned up a few beauties for sure but more so a lot of relative rubbish. Seems only time can tell. Perhaps I need to start to try and love why it is I do what I do, to open my imagination and see all of these things.  To let those damn words breathe.