I have a confession. In general, I don’t like to read poetry.
…
Shocking, I know, considering what I am writing these days.
I don’t hate it or anything. I like some of Wordsworth’s poems very much. But the poems I do enjoy are more story-like. I am not a subtle person. I don’t get hints. You practically have to beat me about the head and shoulders with what you mean before I understand it.
THAT is why I don’t like to read most poetry. It’s too vague. I don’t understand what the poet is trying to say. Oddly, I think that is what I am liking about writing it. I don’t have to have deep meaning. If I am effective, the reader will see their own story in what I write, not mine.
I want to make you feel. I want to make you hurt, bitch that I am. I want to make your throat swell. I am also hoping to give you some joy, but I haven’t gotten those few poems out of my head and onto paper yet. But they are there. You’ll see them soon.
Who knows, this might even teach me to like to read other people’s.