I wrote this last August while sitting up in bed, avoiding sleep. I’m not a great sleeper. I’m usually watching TV, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, occasionally reading. I should read in bed more.
But this night, I spent at least part of my dawdling bedtime hours writing this poem. If I’m being completely honest, I’m still trying to understand everything that it means to me. I tend to write in fits and starts. I don’t have a regular writing schedule. Wish that I did, of course. But I’m too distracted and scatterbrained.
I’ve mostly made my peace with the fact that writing may never be my profession. I fail at it more often than not. And then I wonder if it’s really what I need. I’m still trying to work that out. I see myself largely as a novice, even after 33 years.
Even though it feels like there is truth in this poem, I can’t say whether it’s good or bad. I don’t know that I should really have an opinion on it, to be honest. I wrote it the only way I knew how. So, it is what it is. That kind of thing.
Although it’s taken me over half a year to share it, and although I haven’t written much recently, writing this poem made me hear my voice in a new way. I used to avoid writing poetry because my brain couldn’t seem to translate my feelings and experiences in a satisfactory way. It was like repeatedly mismatching the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
But now, I think that poetry may be the most accessible way for me to express myself creatively in my 30s. It’s perfect for those brief, quiet moments in my mind I want to grab hold of and preserve in my memory. It also gives me a digestible way to make sense of my thoughts and emotions.
Hopefully I’ll make a better practice of this in the future.
—LMB
Lauren Michelle Brock 