I’ve been having a difficult time writing reflections recently. The things emanating from my spirit at this moment can’t be captured with words in the conventional sense. I don’t know how else to explain it - my thoughts lie somewhere between words and music. It’s no wonder that poetry has been speaking to me so profoundly for the last few weeks.
I found the poetry of Yeats and Bukowski, and I haven’t been the same since. I get it. I finally get it. Poetry is the my medium, no matter how outdated the art may seem. It’s the perfect combination of words and music, and I can actually capture the essence of my mind. There are some things that are too dark and too personal to put into long form writing. With poetry, I can do anything I want.
I wrote ten poems, titles “A Poet To His Beloved”. Yes, I stole that name from a Yeat’s poem. Sue me, I adore it. By no means do I have the authority to call myself a poet yet, but I’ll get there, one Wednesday at a time.
I release all of my poetry every Wednesday on a separate Substack called “Poetry in the Dark,” linked below. Go ahead and subscribe if you haven’t already - it’s 100% free.