A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, I was a poet. A teen-aged, angst-filled, love-lorn, hormones-raging poet. I wrote a lot. I wrote on napkins at work, post it notes, scraps of paper, everywhere, anywhere. There was no limit to my creative writing. I never edited, everything was raw emotion. I felt that going back over it was taking away its truth.
Because it was so raw, so real, so true it was very hard for me to share it with anyone. I didn't write for recognition, I wrote for me. It was cathartic like nothing else. I didn't feel I could handle negative comments because it would be a judgment of my emotional state, of who I was at my core. I was blindly trying to find my way in life, lamenting my own mistakes. I didn't need anyone else to come in with their opinions and make me feel even worse.
So rather than sharing my poetry with those closest to me, I posted it to a website where no one knew who I was. It was still scary, but I did it. And what little commentary I got was extremely supportive. This is a huge lesson I've learned over the past few years: the more I share of myself, the more support I find. I've spent so many years holding my cards close to my chest, not letting anyone in on what's really going on inside. Now that I am sharing more, I am kicking myself for not figuring this out, oh say, 27 years ago.
So here it is, the link to my poetry on DeviantArt, on the account I've had for almost 12 years, though rarely used, with a username based on a Five Iron Frenzy song ("a song sung for underdogs"):
Re-reading those words I remember all of the heartache I endured. I can still feel some of it acutely. At the same time, I really want to pour my teenaged self a vodka tonic and have a long chat about how little it all mattered in the long run. But it doesn't matter. She eventually figured that out.