Every time I write a poem I feel like I’m giving in to madness. I can’t help myself. Years ago I read an article that has haunted me ever since in almost every sense. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a young kid and I first started with poetry and songs. And these two forms lend themselves perfectly to expressing pure emotion as purely/fully as possible. What happens when you feel so much and you feel like you can’t get it out? You feel like you’re the only one who feels this way because everyone in your waking walking life doesn’t express it, so you think they don’t feel (it) and no one cares. No one cares. Sometimes you’re surprised and slightly comforted when they understand what you’re talking about, even if it’s just a tiny itty bit. You’re Jack’s tender-hearted lack of surprise when they look at you like you have polka dot horns coming out of your two heads.
For me the circumstances of my younger years, my environment, and how I perceived said environment, led directly to those chosen forms of expression. I hurt and had to get it out. If not so wounded, I still believe that my innate self, my hardwired out of the box self, is artistically inclined. Music, Performance, and so on..but the solitary, reflective, sensitive adolescent, wrote poems and songs, to save hir life. That was the outlet. The mind was unhealthy and trying to balance, always that, and I chose pen over razor, though once I chose pills.
After reading that article, it made me want to stop writing poetry period. I thought I’d write non-fiction because I wanted to live longer. Don’t you know? I want to live forever. Fame…you remember the song? Remember my name. I worried that everyone would think I was crazy. It’s waaaaay too late for that. That ship is sailing This mind, is a poet’s mind. This heart is a poet’s heart. Living in a culture, that as a whole, seemingly values neither heart nor poem nor poet keeps the belly of madness full. Any other form of writing is translation and takes effort. It’s not so simple to put into words what I really mean. What I want to share. And I want to share it simply. In a way that can be easily understood. I do. But sometimes there are no words. Simply, there are no words. Sometimes there are low guttural sounds and high squealed laughter. And recently there’s been this piercing just below the surface steady low intensity rage. I don’t howl at the moon but in my mind I run through the woods like a fox made of fire. And before..
just before becoming human
again I promise not to hurt anyone or myself.
And most times the promise is kept.
I pick up pen, or put fingers to keys, walk with outwardly perceived ease, and listen to the music on my electronic listening device.
These little things save lives.
And every single time I write a poem or a poetic non-fiction piece, I give in a bit more to (a shorter ) life. To madness *raises glass*
in love I give
2 the state of being mad; insanity
1 senseless folly: It is sheer madness to speak as you do.
3 frenzy; rage.
4 intense excitement or enthusiasm.