Poetry is such a vulnerable thing. A simple combination of words that comes from a place so deep in our souls. Of course we are nervous to share our art with the world, it is so revealing! We are made so exposed!
It has taken me a long time to realize that my poetry isn't about the reader or their reaction to it. I write this poetry for me and myself only, I share it because I'm confident that art should be shared. Your reaction is welcome, but it doesn't shape the way I feel about my poetry.
This is an older poem of mine, taken from the book, "Pressed Flowers in a Dictionary," but it is a favourite amongst those who have heard me read aloud. This one is called:
seven even veins follow low frequencies of touch
much of which itches to be often soft but aiming
your flaming gaze makes aches of cool
shivers pool in the all small of my back
crack a skinny smile i'll shimmy for your
shake and fake nonchalance while
my mind pines and launches into scheme
dreams about your poor outsides sidled
next to (vexed too) mine.
know that the flow of our bodies ought to be
something pumping as strong as wine while
we find distractions from the
actions my hips and lips cannot deny.
touch me touch me you say play
a melody it'll be the sweetest
feat to wait and wait then reciprocate
but i can't deny the sound sound
of your lies cause the way your
body moves is so damn smooth.
I suggest you try reading it out loud. Happy World Poetry Day!