Poems and Ponderings

Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash

How it started

Poetry and I have an interesting background. My curiosity for it peaked when I was around 13, and I started writing all of my angsty teen feelings in poetry form in one huge Word doc that I added to every time I had my heart broken, every time I was confused about something, or couldn’t find the words to say that conveyed how I was feeling.

I poured into that document like I was praying to God, I wrote letters to my future husband when that was on my mind, I said everything I couldn’t say, to the people I couldn’t say it to face to face.

And now, I’m so grateful I kept that going. I now have vivid and raw documentation of what my life was like in those years and what my mental state was.

How it is now

When I turned 18, I started a new doc. I plan to keep it going as long as I can. Having those experiences to draw from and remember helps everything that has hurt have a purpose, and by reading them I’m reminded of the lessons and not only the pain.

I’ve always done things a little upside down, so I didn’t start reading poetry until later on after I’d already been writing my version of it for a few years. Some types of poetry remind me of how life feels when I get too far away from myself. I don’t know what I feel sometimes until I read it, or better yet, write it out myself. One of my favorites poets is Lang Leav because her style is concise, beautiful, and real.

This is one of my favorite short ones from her:

“You were the one I wanted most to stay.

But time could not be kept at bay.

The more it goes,

the more it’s gone,

the more it takes away.”

Time, by Lang Leav

I’d encourage everyone to keep a file or a notebook of nothing but the barest display of how one is processing life. This isn’t a new idea, but it’s a good one to uphold.

I didn’t view those documents that way at first–as capturing a time that would soon be lost–but after going through the Building a Second Brain course, I realized I’d been doing a version of that method most of my life.

Moving forward

I’m not a poet. I’m not trying to be a poet. But I love words and I love learning from experiences, bad and good.

Here is a brief piece on the metaphorical ghosts of a small town, written by someone (me) recognizing the snares of making memories and then saying goodbye:

“I see them on corner streets and down grocery aisles. In red cars swerving down lazy riverside roads, drifting through yellow lights, blinking from a one-sided glass.

They haunt the stores and the roads with eerie half submissions. Ghosts of should-haves and would haves and could haves.

Ghosts of maybes; those are the worst.

I see them in the mall in photobooths, old laughter mixed with the hum of present voices. Young girls laughing at the world.

I see them in the movie theaters, skulking in the halls, past projectors, elongated shadows flickering in shades of sepia.

The glint of changing pictures on glasses. The sharp pang of nerves in a humid car.

I see them in the park on benches, the smell of sugary soda sticking to the air and consuming the now with the then. The flowers bend down to look at the sodden grass, sniffing at the salt of the earth and the sweet coating atop it.

The pounding of converse on stone paths, the energy of youth in a bandana and cutoff shorts.

I see them in churches, giggling by the pew. Racing between the rows of green chairs and dusty band equipment. Hiding in the walls, crouching in corners with hidden treasures. Racing through the playground, weaving from swingset to jungle gym, thinking of the future without any real fear.

Ghosts of what was, or seemed like, or felt like.

Ghosts of a future that never was.”

I hope you remember to talk to your future self through what’s happening now. You may find what you need by remembering something repressed or ignored.

Thank you for taking the time to read my poem and my ponderings.

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