The Beauty that is Poetry

Poetry is not glamorous. Poetry is keeping a journal by my bedside so I can wake in the middle of the night, annoyed and desperate, to scribble down sentence fragments and ideas before sleep steals them from me again. It’s writing all over my hands, napkins in restaurants, typing it out as a message to a friend and accidentally sending it. It’s losing my patience as the perfect title slips out of my mind when I divert my attention at just the wrong time. Poetry is staring at a blank page for hours. Poetry is staring at the same page through tears and tears when the words build up inside of you like a flood but they simply won’t come out. It’s re-working the same sentence over and over again until the words barely sound real anymore. It’s slamming shut your computer when your work seems only unpolished, immature, and never truly capturing the world the way you want it. It’s a pile of rejection letters on your desk. It’s not normally coffee shops and natural light and fresh ink. It’s in my pajamas at my kitchen table with lukewarm tea, trying to squeeze in a few more words before I have to go back to class or work or some other engagement. Poetry is not glamorous. It is real and gritty and soaked in life. But it is beautiful. And it is worth it. And it is the only thing I know.