Posted in growing up, love, poetry

Self

Self  In third grade they made us write acrostic poems set to our names, assigning adjectives like “artistic,” to our letters, falling on generic phrases: “L-loves animals.”  We wrote “I am” poems in education’s attempt to encourage self-reflection,  “I am a daughter, a friend, a sister.” I am me.  I hated poetry,  misled by an eight year old’s agony to sit at a table and reflect on breathing, trapped in the command  to notice when I inhaled and exhaled.  I hated that mirror, the image of thinking deeply, of trying to understand the origins of feeling.   I was a child of possibility, of adventure, of laying patches of moss carpet in our backyard treehouse, unconfined by reality, unwilling to understand the structures of my own personality, imagining space and time all my own, free from this idea of pausing, of judging myself through writing.  In high school I disappeared, swallowed by sweatshirts, sucked inward as if a black hole swirled in my brain, afraid to talk, afraid to look past the layers of dust settled between me and all the other desks in class, bottling in silence, getting by, imploding alone.   I collected those years in journals, verses and verses of history, the days of invisibility caught in tangibility, the me never seen  exploding in newfound creativity, through discovery, soul awakened  in the days of university, speaking and hearing a voice  with something to say, people listening, through feeling through feeling finally feeling, a new me, a poet.

In second grade I thought I was going to grow up to become a librarian. In fourth grade I saw a documentary about a cave diving marine biologist and decided I’d become a scientist, a dream that lasted until my senior year in high school when I realized I didn’t in fact like studying biology at all. Never through all those years did I think I’d grow up to be a poet. It’s a passion I fell into through taking a chance, one that took coaxing to start, but one I will never regret.

I’ve written a lot about heartbreak lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Poetry is the outlet that lets me heal, my real true love. No matter where my heart drifts or cracks, it will always have a home in words. Thank you for listening and letting me sing.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

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Author:

Poetry and music.

2 thoughts on “Self

  1. One of the reasons you are a poet, and a good one in my brief experience of your writing, is that you are insightful. This poem exemplifies that, with a vengeance! It is also a journey, it is going somewhere and it surprised me.

    In the four years I’ve been blogging and writing, albeit with less time for production this year, I’ve read a lot of poetry written by other bloggers, some of it good, some of it ordinary, some of it pedestrian, some of it downright trite! It is refreshing to read someone who has insight. It is perhaps that until we are able to look inwards, we are not able to look outwards with honesty and integrity. You have these two qualities in abundance. The world is your oyster, girl.

    1. Thank you! I like that word, insight. I never thought about it that way. I’m honored you enjoyed this poem and appreciate you taking the time to tell me your reaction. Means a great deal. Cheers!

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