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“Riddle me this

Riddle me that

Riddlee RIDdlee riddleee

What goes up

Must

       come

                  DOWN

can you guesss

         what’s

that.”

It’s hard to imagine sometimes, but poems were my real gateway to writing. I wrote as a child for grade-school assignments but up until a few years ago, when I found a bunch of them, I never knew they existed. What I did know was between the ages of 14 and 16 I filled notebook after notebook with poetry. Some were awful, some were cute, some were amusing, and some were gems. During that period, I submitted poems to my school’s literary magazine and was privileged enough to get every one published.

Then eighteen or late seventeen hit and a switched flipped. I remember nights when I would stay up researching drows and dark elves. That research and early writing followed me to my freshman year in college and I have an interesting story typed up on that now. I may post it in segments later on for you to read through. But, I”m getting distracted.

I found that poetry became harder for me to reach out to. My brain stopped stringing words together in rhythmic rhythms and stanzas, it worked in paragraphs. My emotions were also soon removed from my poetry.  Imagination and creativity were the driving forces behind every emotional based piece. When asked if that was how I felt, I’d say no, and leave it at that but isn’t it supposed to be a reflection?

It wasn’t till my senior year in high school that I tried poetry again and what came out wasn’t seasonal wonder or heart racing against time and distance to reach thy love, it was darker. That was where my emotions were it seemed. They weren’t dark enough to call for concern but it had that quality.

“Comfort me darkness, my dear, my friend

forsake me not to the lies of day

where there is no warmth

where there is no hope”

That is what was spewing out of me (versions of it anyway) and I for one love it. I am not gumdrops. I don’t romanticize the world. I am far from an optimist. I like thinking along the shadowed confines of the box society enjoys to place people in and that has touched my creative writing.

I no longer do poetry, unless it is required, but I do miss it. Maybe I’ll play with some words and surprise myself. Who knows, I may even love what is created.

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