Ever since high school, I never really understood the point of poetry. Maybe I never had the best experiences with poetry, and to make matters worse, I was not good at writing it. The words never flowed out smoothly, or fit together perfectly, or oozed philosophical emotions I’d been bottling up for years. Even as a writer, suddenly, words were this thing I had to discover. I just never quite found the formula.
With the weight of the entire world just resting on my broad shoulders, my friend told me she was going to A Concrete Rose in Lancaster. I decided to tag along to lift the weight or at least shift it for a bit.
It was warm and cozy and smelled like candles. There were people laughing and talking, being free; existing. The open mic night began, and from the first performer to the last, it was captivating. And when the night was over, I began to think about poetry again, what it meant, what it’s purpose was. Not just to me, but to the people who use it as their method of expressing themselves, the people who find themselves in the words that come to them. I started to wonder if this was something I should re-explore.
The weight wasn’t exactly lifted. A momentary escape from reality only lasted until the buildings of campus appeared again that night. But I think I felt lighter somehow.
Does poetry work? Is it a remedy for overthinking? Can it lower the volume of the thought polluting my mind?
I think poetry can be an outlet. It’s just one I’ve yet to explore.
I don’t like taking risks, but the mistakes that would come from taking this risk would never have to be seen. A notebook could house all the words I never could quite fit together like puzzles pieces, safe from curious eyes.
Maybe I can try new things and find new parts of myself. Who knows? Maybe poetry will work.
HCXO, Rachel