Poetry is the tether that holds some artists close to their inner thoughts, experiences, and realities. Some people have therapists who know them better than they know themselves. I have both poetry and therapists, except the former speaks to me daily whereas the latter only once a month. Usually, my words are etched with some truth and some embellishment depending on the topic. But lately, they’ve been exploiting my life like an ocean exposing the beach beneath the sand, chaffing me for all to read, coming a bit too close to the real me than simply delving “under the surface.” It seems like my poetry is unashamed of baring the nakedness of my soul and then uncovering it, layer by layer, for others to experience, relate, and, inevitably, judge.
I can’t, however, in good measure, simply blame my poetry for not taking into account my reputation when flaunting skivvies through words, phrases, and expressions arranged so beautifully that it leaves me breathless and unaware that they are, indeed, the creation of my own mind (though the inspiration I must grant to other poets). After all, I am the one who posts these poems that leave me vulnerable to the world of strangers and friends alike. I have come to the realization that I am no longer afraid of the rawness of my words or the way others perceive me through them. Actually, though I’m hesitant to share my weaker poetry, I’m eager to post the ones that reveal me as a poet and a woman, a mother and a wife, a sinner and a saint. And perhaps I do so because no one really reads my work; they just peruse without reading like window shopping without buying, and I’m also come to terms with this fact since it gives me the freedom to write what I wish without worrying about questions and judgments. There is a certain liberty in flaunting my flaws to an audience of no one; I have no inhibitions in my writing because no one holds me accountable for my imperfections except the perfection that I find in my words.
And so, I hold no grudges against my poetry or the way it smirks when I gape in surprise, the way it laughs at my temporary discomfort, and then swaggers onto my blogs like a model on a runway.