I suppose I’d have to write another poem. I experience the specific feeling that the Olivia who wrote this did when I read it, but I have no way to put it into words. I felt kind of alone but kind of not in this place surrounded by people I didn’t know, but who were all full of life. It was winter, winter in Colorado so I was really cold. Bad mental health times are some, not all, of the times I tend to turn to poetry. I was overwhelmed with anxiety and general melancholy, my brain was not behaving. I don’t remember what was happening in my life at the time, but I remember the sensations. Now I sit in my shaky moon mind in the broken cold and draw little girls with eyes full of oceansĪnd red haired women made of sand, straining their eyes to find mermaids Something about it fixes the broken parts inside me I never even bothered titling it and I title everything. I was at a coffee shop that was doing a poetry open mic and I wanted to read something, but I didn’t have anything on hand so I wrote this little, anxiety fueled poem very quickly. I cheated and tweaked a couple lines so the poem below is the tiniest bit different, but mostly the same. I wrote this at some point last year, pre-covid. Spirituality, venting, self exploration, art, performance, coping with life. My poems are very personal, reflective of what’s happening in my life at the moment. How do you define poetry without poetry? How do you explain something that’s not created to be concrete? It finds its way into you, whispers up your spine, wraps around your heart, pulses in your veins. It’s the feeling and the image, and the experience. It’s classrooms and coffee shops and scribbling in journals at midnight. It’s punctuation and run on sentence and em-dash and enjambment. Poetry is metaphor and simile and image and sound. It’s full of such luscious, delicious language that it deserves to be heard. I think a lot of poetry is made to be read aloud, sometimes sung. It can be clever, tragic, beautiful, grotesque, melancholy. Poetry is raw emotion, it’s what happens when you tear yourself apart and make something with the pieces.
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