Loving My Own Poems

As I continuously chip away at the mountain of poetry I’ve written since 2015,  I get to sift through the dust and bones of my momentary thoughts. Most of the time, I cringe. Seriously, I thought that was remotely good? Yes, yes, I did. But then some days the poems I transcribe to this website actually make me smile.

It’s mainly the story-driven poems that I discover I love. The ones that set a small scene and surprise me a year later with my sometimes morbid, sometimes starry-eyed and hopeful plots. In Poem #568 and Poem #570, I wrote what I would describe as horror poems, which is probably not my usual fair. Mostly, I just loved reading them. It was a good feeling. I really wish I knew what I had been doing those days to have those poems pop into my brain.

Maybe it’s a bit narcissistic of me, but I love those poems. They are unpolished and off-the-cuff. They are also fun to read.

Anyway, feel free to comment with how you feel about your old poetry! Do you love it? Do you want to burn it? Why?

Poem #570

we went for a night hike
separate from the group at the park
we poked fun at horror tropes
we lost our way but triumphed

we came back from the hike
back to the group at the park
they were completely gone
they were lost to horror tropes

Poem #568

he hid me in the attic
and somehow I didn’t scream
I couldn’t move
I couldn’t sleep
I could hear my family downstairs
I wanted them to find me
but he had hidden me
even as my mom grabbed an old lamp
she still did not notice me
I heard them mourn my loss
months passed as I stayed up there
he fed me with tubes
and exercised me
his hands touching me
I was disgusted
but could not save myself
trapped and forgotten