poetry brain

Some nights, I like to sit on my windowsill when it is dark and cold out. Wearing my pyjamas with a cardigan over my shoulders, I will sit with a notebook on my lap and write. More often that not on these nights, I will write poetry.
There is something about the stars and the dark and the silence that brings out the teen-angst-ridden poet inside of me. When I reach this stage, there is no turning back. Poorly formed syntax and stiff rhymes and attempts at iambic pentametre fill the page. The only way out of my poetry brain is through emptying it.
These words? I cannot share them. They are honest and true and raw, but awful too. It seems to be a fundamental aspect of Being A Teenager to use words or music or art ias a release for all this angst and confusion. And I don't think I'm ready to share that heartbreak and sadness with you yet.
That doesn't mean I shouldn't write it though. These pages of poorly written poems are a map of my fourteenth year. Of my attempts to cultivate an meaningful life, and of trying to help others just stay alive. Of plane journeys that left me crying, and of Sunday afternoons spent drinking coffee. Of huge dreams, and of sleepless nights.
Go--write a poem.
xx
Libby