For YQJ
Artifice... yeah, I freely admit it. It's a gimmick. I want people to understand what I think, feel, say, mean, and so I use this gimmick, poetry, to communicate it. It won't change anyone, will it? I want it to, though I have to agree that it won't. I want it to shatter barriers and move minds and connect hearts, but all it does is play with sound, shrink down meaning, reduce what I am to a few lines of text and some jumbled emotions.I'm still a child, believing in myself more than anyone should believe in a mortal. I love my work. I almost wonder if sometimes anything is more representative of who I am than my cobbled-together tumble of words, and then wonder if that's too much to be believed. I still write poetry instead of crying, which is sometimes an escape.
I don't know what I'm trying to say, which has been happening to me all day. But whatever caused you to burn your pencils and papers, remember too the sheer joy of showing someone a poem and saying, "Look! Look! This is me poured out on the page! This is miraculous! Divine thing, that I can express something that almost overwhelmes me... Can I give you a glimpse into my world? Will I change you by this action?"
And don't judge too harshly the medium, for a medium is only that, and the wielder decides if it's an artifice or their essence that makes it onto the page. Poetry like a lover you never got over, anyway. It still catches you unawares with its scent, form, movement and grace; how long can you deny the muses? They're stubborn, playful, spoiled, spirited and headstrong. They'll sweep you off your feet and barely make a half-hearted effort to break your fall.
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