God has blessed me with an ability converse well, being able to discuss a wide range of topics with people in various forms and forums, but I am frustrated by not knowing a lot about one thing.
I've been especially interested in poetry and wordsmithing lately, something beyond this blog, something more...I don't know...Sophisticated? Refined? Formal? Well-structured? Professional? Not sure exactly the right word (which is why I am none of those things! *laughing*)
I like to read poetry. I'm moved by it ways similar to how I'm moved by music. It's a visceral experience. Every fiber of my being can move into my interpretation of the body of work. My whole soul can be consumed by it.
I want to author words that will consume you. I want to portray images and evoke emotions that make you ache, cringe, writhe, settle, smile. I want to do that in poetic form. And I want to be good at it.
I have found myself over the last couple of years, reading some poetry and learning snippets of the lives of these poets. These particular ones (Syliva Plath, Anais Nin, Anne Sexton, to name a few) are dark and charged, if that makes any sense. I believe most of them even committed suicide, which suggests a thing or seven in of itself, no?
Perhaps it's because I'm not haunted enough, or jaded, lonely, tortured enough. Would these character issues, these soul struggles, these fissured facets of personality, somehow be a catalyst to me exercising my poetry brain and hands?
I will always have my blog....and that's a good thing.
Until next time, I will leave you with this jewel: