My friends are incredible. The way they share information, music, writing and art with me is amazing. The older I get the more I feel like my personhood is a scrapbook of all the people, experiences, and things suggested to me. I am living Pinterest really.
That being said, my friend Kate introduced me to a poet today. She was curious about what I'd think given that she's getting into poetry and I've been into it as long as I can remember.
"A lot of people I know are obsessed with her." Kate said. So I checked this poet out.
At risk of shaming the poet, I won't link to her site. I will say this-
Writing poetry fluctuates between being the same thing as slitting your wrists and masturbating. This girl's poetry is her getting herself off to her own peril.
There is feeling, and expressing so someone gets it, and expressing your feelings so beautifully and articulate that it becomes art. Then there is feeling as though that your feelings are somehow unique, or that you are more broken yet better than everyone else because of them.
Your feelings are not unique-your means of acquiring them are, and how you express them are. Sadness is sadness. Joy is joy. You are not some special snowflake because a lover melts the ice in your heart that froze because your dad beat you as a child.
It is the same thing as loving a band because you love them, and telling people you love a band to make yourself look more cultured.
This poet is not a larger vessel for human emotion or understanding because of her way with words. In this regards, she is a skiff while she is trying to be tanker. She narrows herself by being full of her own heart.
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