Life as a Poet Knows It

Nothing fuels a poet

I possess a weapon.

Write.

Stuck in this snowstorm in this small one horse town without a way to get around. The police took my drivers license for no insurance even though they had no evidence. Now I'm stuck without a job feeling like a slob living at mom's without an allowance. I'm writing all night and day doing almost anything to get some pay. Always out busting my ass because it's safer than selling grass. I got this can't stop attitude despite my current situation being crude I know my future is bright. Waking up everyday with a clear hopeful sight of my dreams flying high like a kite in a blue sky.

"A restless year.

I'm 21 and I've lived with insecurities my whole life. I'm not going to lie, I still have some. Having a nice body, clear skin, and cute clothes was the most important thing in my life for the longest time. I mean, it is always good to take care of yourself, but we should do it for the right reasons, right? A year ago, I wouldn't go out without make up and let people see me looking "gross." I had breakouts and, even though my boyfriend is the sweetest person and calls me beautiful always, it did not matter to me because I was not able to call myself beautiful. I would spend two hours getting ready, then I would say "well, that is all I can do." I think it is really sad when all you see in yourself are flaws, and you feel like you are not enough. But I was tired of it.

Much can be said about poetry.

poetry is an art —

I looked around the nice restaurant. There were not many people here, just a few couples scattered around the room immersed in their own conversations. I could not remember the last time I had been in a city bigger than my hometown. My cousin, Christina, had moved to New York City a few years back. I rarely left my small home in rural Massachusetts. She convinced me to come and visit her. When I arrived, and we had caught up with each other; Christina told me that she knew a man that I should meet. I was not too anxious to meet a man. I had some unsavory encounters in the past. She believed that I was too shy. To make her happy I agreed to go on the blind date. Christina told me that he was a poet and that she had met him at one of his readings. I guessed that since he wrote, too, at least we would have something to talk about.