Why We Write About Love

People long for connection–
Through words,
through emotions,
through experiences.
Sharing these commonalities
and expressing ourselves
offers a narrow, rickety bridge to others,
allowing them to cross over
into our minds,
our hearts,
and our souls.

Love, possessing the most
universal tendencies
–heartache, betrayal,
happiness, passion–
provides the sturdiest
of all bridges.

People feel it,
they experience it.
Whether they’re writers
or readers,
they’re familiar with it.
They don’t question
whether the boards
have weathered too many storms
or if the ropes are tied
tight enough to hold them up.
They have crossed
that bridge countless times before,
and they know
that they’ll reach the other side.


I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The the question for this was: “Why do so many poets use their words, talents, and failures in love to write self-centered poetry about so called love over n over again when there’s oh so many colors in the rainbow?”

My answer (described more in-depth): Poets are just people with emotions who turn their feelings into a piece of writing. Many poets do step beyond the stereotype and write about a vast array of topics outside the realm of love or relationships, but love still plays a strong part in poetry because it evokes so much passion in people. It can create so many different feelings about ourselves, others, and the world. Love can alter our perception and I think it will always dominate poetry for that reason. However, there are poets who focus on love and write nothing else, and a lot of people who don’t read multiple poets’ work, think love poems are the only kind of poetry that exist. There are a lot of possible topics out there, but poets tend to choose those that speak and mean the most to them and readers do the same. If a poet wrote about some experience no one can relate to, why would anyone read it? It’s passionate, it’s marketable, and it’s meaningful.

P.S. – apparently, as the person who’s question I answered told me, this “fails as a poem.”

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!

Spine

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My spine is slowly shrinking
into a constant crouch.
With a curved back
and hunched shoulders,
I resolve into myself.
Cowering away from the surrounding forces
beckoning me near,
I wear this yellow spine
and flushed red cheeks
to disguise me from myself.
For if I lifted my lowered face,
and looked into the world,
I may discover something
about them- about us-
that I never wished to find.

Fallen Angels

Monsters like werewolves, goblins, and vampires
are all too fabricated and embedded
with lies, fantasy, and fiction
to offer me anything
other than momentary entertainment.
But demons–
those once-angels of God,
who fell, ashen and decayed,
and transformed
from an ideal of beauty
to a thing of disgrace,
who lost their vibracy,
their light–
they are the monsters
I can’t escape from.

Because of their choices,
dark wishes, and desires,
those once so vivid,
so loved and adored
are now feared,
hated, and abhorred.

There’s a fine line
between innocence and sin,
and once you’re standing
on the border,
you never know which way
you may fall.


I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The the question for this was: “what is your favorite monster or demon from literary tradition?”

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!

Rain

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I hear the clattering
of
     each
          drop
as it ricochets from the surfaces
it chooses to touch.
It pools and puddles,
then rises, and
falls
once more, cycling
through time and through nature,
breaking apart,
then gathering together,
providing peace through its sounds
of continuous clamor.


Just a quick little poem about rain. I haven’t had much time to write lately, hopefully I’ll be able to get something up that I have more time to work on soon.

Overcome Writer’s Block

It stands guard against your half-engaged brain,
blocking the thoughts -the emotion-
from pouring from your mind,
through your heart, and to the tips
of your fingers for you to spill
onto the page.
To battle the warden of your words,
search for inspiration
in the crevices of monotony, of routine
and discover the beauty
in the every day.
Read of the places
others have traveled to,
escaped from,
or dreamed of.
Study their ventures,
their quests, and goals.
Endure their heartbreak,
their elation, and confusion.
Look into their words
and uncover your own.


I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The first question I tackled was how I overcome writers block.

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!

My Gnawed Core

I haven’t learned
why my soul has yet
to bare its pearly bone
outwards; instead, it turns
toward me and grins,
exposing the jagged
white stones which threaten
to gnaw at my core.
They gnash and grind
against themselves
as the dull sounds
grate inside of me.


A short poem that I havent decided if I want to add to, or leave as-is. Let me know what you think!

Paper Life

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She said her world
was made of paper–
that it was carelessly ripped
and torn out of the book
she once held so dearly.
Now, this piece of paper,
etched with years
of milestones
and meaningless moments,
is crumpled up
and has been tossed away
without a followed thought.
She said her world
was made of paper–
that each memory
left a permanent scar
on something entirely
disposable.

Vaulted Remains

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I keep revisiting that old cellar—
where all of the lost have been locked.

The dark, dingy space encapsulated them,
sealing them away from the outside world.

I’ve heard their screams—their cries
for sanctuary, for sanity.

Lunacy devoured their minds, leaving nothing
but ravaged carcasses and hollowed bones in its wake.

Now it gnaws at their conscious thoughts
and gnashes its vile, septic teeth in their desolate faces.

I fear traveling those fragmented bones
of splintered wood and hearing its creaking—its moaning

as I take each petrified step
down the skeleton stairs.

Besmirched hands grab at my ankles
behind every board, vying to pull me under.

I clench to the frail railing
and battle the fetid fingers that scrape at my taluses.

They yearn for the flesh, for the blood,
for the body. They ache for a vessel

to carry them out of the crypt.
And I offer them, only, that want.

I keep revisiting that old cellar—
to reminisce on the desires

that almost took hold of me.

Mystical Winds

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The soothsayer’s forthcoming prophecies
& the enchantments that slip
through the thin lips
of the old, convulsed witch
speak nothing of the power
that abides in the breath
of the wind. Its mystical whispers
echo in our ears, casting its spells & expelling its essence–
it surrounds us all with certain magic.