It had been two years since I wrote a poem.
Then only a month ago I wrote a poem that was neither angry or angsty, but it was calm. And most importantly, the words flowed. Quickly, I wrote a second and this time it had a “fuck you” attitude and made me happy. A couple of weeks later I wrote a third which felt lonely. Last week was my clucky poem. So far, they have all been individual with their own emotions.
And I have enjoyed them.
Damn, have I changed my opinion about poems? Maybe. Let me go and find a poem by someone else and see if I can read it without getting a headache… Nope. Still don’t like poetry.
So why am I writing it?
I don’t know. Perhaps I have emotionally grown and no longer have a deep set anger. Perhaps this is a phase and it too shall pass. Perhaps I should just shut up and write another poem. Either way, this is something new.