pi & anne

snow can burn
it has a million ways to be
and melt
like my eyes could
if

It is so freeing to not think about… can I get this published? Will anybody take this? What are they searching for? How do they define what a good fit is and how do those? It’s killing what really had brought me to writing which is … wanting to express myself. I just wanted to open the door. Pull the curtains. Place a candle onto the sill. I just wanted to get to know myself, and somehow, somehow this felt better than having in mind if anybody would get this on a professional level. I want to stir people in a way that only I can, because it’s mine.

Don’t get me wrong. Years ago, people read me on here and told me they were rereading because the poems moved them. Because they related. I believe that was a very good reason to share them here on Instagram. I wrote some raw and crazy stuff. It was always honest, but without any regulation.

Now my poems are in journals and magazines, but there is no one who gets back to me having read them, saying this has touched them beyond letters on a paper.

Don’t get me wrong. It is so beautiful to see my poetry in print. But I miss the exchange. I miss being read not by other writers, but by readers. I miss connecting. I miss moving beyond a bubble of poets.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to get feedback which tells me the truth, getting a chance to improve my writing by it. By a professional. But I long to know if that poem made someone feel something, made them wonder, made them cry or laugh, foremost that. No matter which image, metaphor or other rhetorical device or juxtaposition or number of lines. It’s no intellectual game.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t figured this out. I have a deep yearning to write.

And I haven’t figured it out.