not a poet,
just a girl
broken into pieces
that when put together
make her feel
As of late, I’ve been starting out a lot of tweets with this this “not a poet, just a girl….” thing. It’s not because I want anyone to tell me differently. It’s really not. It’s because I don’t see myself as a poet. In my mind, poets are people like …. Robert Frost, ee cummings, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton.
I write things on Twitter that come from thoughts swirling around in my head. Are they poems? I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. I’m not here to debate semantics or technicalities of poetic form or writing. That’s not the point of this post. Nor am I here to challenge anyone else who calls themself a poet. You do you. Most likely I’m enjoying you doing you – reading you and swooning over your words, regardless of what you are calling yourself. Because I’m a fan of words. Of writing. Of verse. Of poems. Of poetry. Of thoughts. Of prose. All of it. I read it, soak it in, and swoon over it.
There’s so much inside me. Pieces of things that I’ve lived and seen. Pieces of regret from both things I’ve done and didn’t do. Pieces of things I’ve read that you and others have written. I read to learn. To grow. To sympathize. To empathize. And I write to express. To confess.
Everything. It’s all inside me.
Everything in me is the Ocean.
And I am drowning.
I write to find my way to the surface.