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.
Underneath. Down here where it’s calm. Where the black beauty of the abyss touches my feet. All is quiet. All is still. I’m entombed as if in a coffin. Locked forever in my own space Controlling the promise of my ever after. And then you came. Pelting my world. Hurtling across like a comet in my stretching blue sky. You bring the change, flowing through like a weather system. Flourishing my eyes open like a new season. Calling sub-oceanic flowers to bloom within me. Aquatic forest pines that reach up to touch the surface. To reach and touch your face. My hands branch to catch the light you dazzle. A sudden rush you instill within me like heroin bubbles in my blood. Coming up too soon, bending my compression that has kept my heart safe. Heading for the bends. I’m a fish not born to fly with you. High where the birds and angels soar. Hidden in these depths for reasons. For sins that keep me drowned. Now it rains under water, puddling the pool of the sea that parts us. And I drift in the stream of sorrow. Knowing that the rain on the surface, is really your tears.