Sharing poetry is a risky choice. Much like singing for others can feel so personal and revelatory, poetry inherently bares the soul of its author. There’s nowhere to hide insecurities or mask feelings; they’re all out there. A lot of the reading I’ve done regarding creativity addresses the issue of vulnerability. We each experience it to some degree and choose to safeguard it in whatever manner is most comfortable to us. Our go-to armor. And, often, it’s a good thing we shield ourselves. We all know what happens when we forget caution with the wrong people.
But lately I’ve been thinking that I need to practice vulnerability more. It’s now second nature to protect myself, and because of that, there’s deep reluctance to show my humanity. Not to say that it isn’t extremely obvious to others regardless, but I’m less willing to trust those who have earned it. It’s akin to being unable to remove a disguise that you think hides you from others, but only hides you from yourself.
So. Behold the poetry of this thirty-something. Much of this was written during a period of transition. I’d finally figured out that, yes, despite feeling like a kid dressed up for play time, I actually was this mysterious creature called an “adult.” And I didn’t—and still don’t—have a manual on how this whole thing called life works.