And then Amanda realizes she hasn’t contributed to this blog in, like, a month…
I’ve had a weird love/hate relationship with poetry—and with most forms of art—the past few weeks. I love them, but creating them feels overwhelming. I feel that I can put the words together, but I can’t attach meaning.
Part of this comes from not wanting to write about the same topics I have been writing about (mostly trauma), but when I try to write about other things, the poem takes life of its own and then trauma and whatever I’m working on in therapy forces its way in… which, yes, has made my shrink overwhelmingly happy. Me, less so. For me, it feels repetitive, and I start to wonder if I’m simply ruminating on the same ideas rather than processing them, which in turn, takes away my need to write less. In compensation, I’ve been trying to read more poetry, but it seems in shutting down the part of me that wants to write, I’ve also shut down the part of me that wants to read, and I find less meaning in the words written by others (or, rather, concentration feels harder). So in compensation to that, I’ve been trying to do more art and listen to more music, which often results in similar manners (but I do want to write another post relating to art, so I won’t go into detail on that).
Anyone else ever feel this way? This post turned into a bit of a rant, rather than a comment on source in poetry. But, you know.