Poetry. I used to have a deep love of writing it when I was a little girl. I remember when I wrote and illustrated some for gifts one year for family Christmas gifts. My Nana and Grandaddy still have one of them framed, my childlike writing and illustration lovingly preserved and on display.
I wrote and gave them so freely, totally unconcerned with critique and without one worry over whether or not they were good enough.
I created. I gave.
It was that simple.
Of course, I gave knowing my little scribblings would be loved and accepted by the hands I’d place them in. That helps a ton, huh? *chuckling*
Not too long ago I participated in a write-in and I was surprised when my responses to the prompts we writers were given came tumbling out in the form of poetry.
Below is my first response. I’m extremely nervous about sharing it publicly, but I can’t encourage others to create their way through fear if I can’t do the same for myself.
So here it is in all its imperfect glory.
And, yes, there is an expletive. This is your salty language warning, y’all.
I hope to write more poetry and maybe, just maybe, share more here, too.
Thanks for sharing in this moment of crazy-big vulnerability with me.
Now, I’m off to breathe into a paper bag or something…