So I had a creative writing assignment for my Intro to Poetry class. This was my time to shine, and I could have really taken the teacher to the mountain with some delicious melancholy, a poem about this Buddhism, or the ode to my mother. While I technically DID do melancholy, it’s just the subject of said lament. The subject, people. My goodness, the subject. I won’t go into detail, but this was a poem that should have existed years ago. Back when I had a Xanga, back when I was still relaxing my hair, back when I was playing Ayaka’s Why like 900 times a day with tears running down my face. The fact that it hit me in 2015 made me feel so stupid and shameful, and I’m sure my muse was behind my back the entire time, cackling.
The young lady who peer reviewed my poem wrote this one line saying that a lot of women could identify with the subject matter. Which, I’m sure they could. Still, I felt so silly. Where were these thoughts coming from? These emotions, these sentiments? My muse does what it wants, anyway. Always purging sections, randomly. Always touching down on this subject and that, not really having any reason or structure. It just says “write about this” until I do it. If I don’t write about it, I usually regret it for days and days. So, I gave in. I said “sure, fine, whatevs”….and next thing I know, it came.