Poetry? Ugh. Not a fan.
Which is ironic, given that I was known to be a reasonably skilled, and somewhat prolific poet in high school (if I’m not being modest, and…I’m not). And looking back on some of my juvenile efforts more than two decades later, some of it isn’t half bad.
So, here’s the thing. I had a tolerance for writing poetry, mostly because it served as a release valve for an angst-written teenager with lots to say and no one in particular to say it to. My teachers and my cohorts were very appreciative of my efforts, which was extremely gratifying. But even when I was writing poetry regularly, I had zero interest in reading anyone else’s poetry. Traipsing through someone else’s obscure metaphors and fanciful allusions? No thank you! Does absolutely nothing for me at all.
It took me a long to come to this conclusion, but I eventually realized, “If I don’t want to read anyone else’s poetry, why should they want to read mine?” As soon as I reached this epiphany, I stopped writing poetry.