Throughout my time, I often point out the mistakes in writing, rather than absorb the beauty. It’s so easy to point out the negative, what they did wrong than what they worked so hard on and did right. I’ve been wired like this for a long time. They stick out so easily and prevent me from moving on to the beauty of the piece. Often I find myself questioning if it is in our nature or how we’ve been taught as a society to pick apart every detail and focus on what could have been better?
Recently I found you, you misspelled tag on a poem. And you too, you forgotten period at the end of a line. I found you too, you misspelled word in a poem about the sun shining down upon you. I see you all, and I think you do this to me on purpose, to know that we are not perfect, to know that poetry is life and life is not perfect, and love, love is not perfect either.
We are inevitably flawed and yet I wish it all to be perfect, and I want poetry to be perfect because it pours directly from our hearts and our hearts pour out the truest emotions in our poetry. Shouldn’t we strive to reflect our truest form in poetry?
It’s a battle of cyclical proportions: we are who we are and we show it through poetry, we strive to become someone or something and we show that through poetry, and we see what has been and we tell our stories through poetry.
So now when I stop at those forgotten opportunities of improvement I say, “I see you. I get you. I am you, too.” for we have all been that forgotten detail in someone’s story.
The following video is an excerpt from an open mic poetry reading with THE BRIDGE Progressive Arts Initiative on March 24, 2021 in celebration of Women’s History Month. They’ve put together this video for your viewing pleasure.
bore from the most arduous labor, its intoxicating fruit, its sweet blossoming fragrance, pulls in the strongest of hearts. as a vine snakes its way through the depths of a luscious secret garden, distinct impressions produce the richest aromas. even to an untrained eye, the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed.
the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed; even to an untrained eye, the richest aromas produce distinct impressions. a luscious secret garden snakes its way through the depths as a vine pulls in the strongest of hearts. its sweet blossoming fragrance, its intoxicating fruit bore from the most arduous labor.