Poetry is Memories

The last few weeks, I’ve decided to take a different approach to writing once again. What prompts that I’ve listed and were going to use for stories—have now entered poetry territory.

It seems like the more I say a word, the more memories that are prompted because of that single word. Which are then rhymed and twisted around, until it’s just like I remembered it.


In that regard, I’ve come up with some pretty interesting associations. The word “don’t” triggered a more than I-would-like-to-throw-it-down a window thought, about a betrayal of a friend.

“Sleeping bags” were those days when I’d be sleeping over with a friend, and we’d have the sudden thought to take our sleeping bags down the steep stairs, as if we were sledding down a hill of snow. 

It’s times like these--whether they be good or bad--that I long for. That I can help others relate to their own memories, as well as to my own.

In a way, poetry is therapeutic to me. I’ve never been good with saying what’s on my mind. It’s always what has resided inside that has become the most precious, and what I’ve grown from the most.

When I began writing, it was like a candle had sparked my soul to life. The words came out gibberish and surface talk, but something laid hidden in the shadows. And then as years past, slowly those words came out and graced its presence with something marvelous.

I cannot express fully, how grateful I am for the power of words. They can either hurt or comfort you; take you to a magical word--where you forget everything--and get wrapped inside something beyond your wildest dreams.

And in these words, I can tell you that they’re not meant to harm or hurt those who have come into my life. The words I write are merely to express those emotions that have been stirring inside me for years.