I don’t stockpile blog posts. I’m not in any way a prolific blogger. I used to wish I was like that; the Stephen King of blogging, grinding out page after page on any subject that popped into, or fell out of, my head. And for a short time, about ten years ago, I was heading in that direction, writing online.
Until a nasty bout of what I thought was writer’s block overtook me, and for the next few months I went from writing a feature column for a website to being an itinerant poet.
I’ve told the story before, so that’s why the short version this time. But there is a part I’ve never told, in print or in person, to anyone.
I started writing poetry for the same reason people vaguebook, or subtweet, before there were such things as vaguebooking and subtweeting. I started writing poetry because all the things I ever wanted to say to others required honesty. Feature-length, name the names, feel the feels, full disclosure honesty. And I wasn’t ready for that kind of honesty ten years ago. Just like I wasn’t ready for it five years ago, or two, or even more recently than that.
Poetry, and I just figured this out last week… I know, late to my own party, again… became a way of purging shit, real, honest shit, without ever having to confront another human being over that shit. See, I hate confrontation.
ALL CAPS HATE.
Of course I know what some of you are thinking, “How can a guy who writes the things you write NOT be confrontational?” And my marginally confrontational answer is, “Have you not read my writing?” See, I’m both blessed and cursed with a soul. Not the half-in/half-out, maybe I care/maybe I don’t kind of a soul. But the all-in/all-out/all-the-time kind of soul. The soul that can either love you, or burn the bridge you stand on while we’re talking. So because of that, and because this 100/100 soul can’t hold everything in ALL the time, I started purging all of it through the power of poetry. No names, vague scenarios, love you or burn the bridge you stand on, poetry.
And I am a saner man for it.
So if in the future, before you ask me, “Was that poem about me?” remember to look down and see if you’re standing on a bridge ready to be burned, and know that I probably love you, or I wouldn’t have written the poem in the first place.
And just believe me when I say,
“It’s not about you.”
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday