Sometimes I feel like I insult the face of poetry. I imagine an unspoken, unwritten seal of approval waiting to be placed on my forehead as a qualification. Do I make the cut? I often ask myself this question in hopes that my alter ego tells me it’s alright.
Surely there must be a rule or level of skill required for even just the consideration of a poem. No? I don’t know. From what I perceive, someone had to start somewhere. Whether it be another human being entirely or an alter ego, the first poem was (inevitably) accepted by such.
I’m beginning to realize that I probably should make a distinction within poetry. There are poems, and there are poems which come from contained emotion. I like to believe I don’t just throw a rhyme here and there. Am I a fraud?
No. I considerately took any word necessary from the dictionary to fulfill the emotion in my heart. Every line was for the readers themselves; the length, the syllables, the flow. Even from the absence of relation and sympathy or empathy, I will still write poetry to starve my depression and feed my soul.