I only write poetry when I’m feeling broken.
Ugly, hopeless poems that reek of death and decay. Because when my head is messed up it goes into my words and my hands and renders me incapable of writing and drawing anything that’s alive in the way that only fictional beings can be. Left is only dying poetry. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want to be a poet (other reasons include my being too literal-minded). I don’t want to identify as that creature in pain jotting down its deceased thoughts that I am sometimes in the same way I identify as a writer and an artist. The latter two are central to the person I view myself as and responsible for the majority of the true happiness I feel, while the former is an unfortunate but necessary consequence of being alive. Since my mental state has been less than great the last year of so, I’ve felt like I’ve been losing grip of the writer and especially artist in me, which doesn’t exactly improve the pain.
However, I’m starting to think that this is partly because I’ve never really been in touch with my pain – I’m getting better at that now, after many therapy sessions and intensive soul searching. It seems to be working. A few days ago, I drew this:
Now I wonder what will happen to the ugly poetry and my art in general. Maybe I’ll feel more connected to either of them – be able to put more of myself into the works that make me happy, and perhaps also consider the act of writing poems something more and different than a drawn out suicide. I might start taking care of the creature in pain instead of standing at a safe distance staring at it as it writhes and whines. Or maybe I’ll stop writing poetry all together, go back to coming up with stories and images that are in no way a reflection of myself, and process my emotions in some other way. I don’t know. But I do know that I’ve missed drawing, missed writing things I love, and if this will make me do those things again – I look forward to figuring it out.