I love the time of reflection provided by travel days. I’ve spent a good bit of time flying alone over the past two years and I enjoy the unique opportunity I get to be inspired by new, diverse surroundings in what seems like my own little world. Over the years I’ve made poetry something sacred to me, but mostly under faulty reasoning—so to an extent I’d like that to be upended. Hence, airplane poetry.
Poetry lends itself to mystery and ambiguity and misinterpretation. I remember writing poetry as a young teenager about dark things which could’ve gotten me sent away—it was then when I first learned to keep my poems to myself. In time though, I grew comfortable enough to share them with those I wrote about—expressing love through my favorite medium. I can’t quite remember sharing poetry after those people left. I suppose these are small explanations for why it’s taken me nearly three years to share any poetry on this blog.
The thought of sharing my poetry with others has made me feel insecure, embarrassed, and ashamed. For years I’ve thought of myself as “too much” for people. I have a tendency to overshare while simultaneously leaving out the most cherished parts of myself, out of fear of being misunderstood or met with a chuckle of confusion—or maybe disapproval. I’m slowly but surely learning to lay down those fears. I used to worship my feelings, but their fickleness and desperation have misled me one too many times. For me, writing—especially poetry—is a way to identify my emotions, discern between truth and deception within them, and finally, turn the truth into art. Art as its own end. Not to be understood, or accepted, or appreciated. Just an extension of myself.
I have no idea if and when I’ll share any more of this kind of writing, but for today, it is shameless, and it is its own end.