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Friday, 29 September 2017

Bloo Does Poetry | a generic love poem

"Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."
Robert Frost

Rocking some red eye circa 2006.
Howdy everyone and welcome to today's post. Today I'm going to talk about something else that happened during my blogging absence (yes, I'm really not doing well at focusing on the future...) and that was reigniting my love of poetry. Throughout my teenage years I was goth/emo and obviously awful poetry came along with the gig. I really wish I could find some of those poems to show you and maybe some day I will embarrass myself by doing just that. However, my ability to make myself vulnerable in the way of writing my more dark or intense feelings as poetry slowly left me. I was too self conscious, even if nobody was going to see it. But while I was away I stumbled upon Slam Poetry and fell in love. Not only was I in awe of the poetic genius and the power behind some of the poems but also the poet's ability to stand up in front of an audience and bare their soul like that, with such conviction. I plan to write a post in the future about some of my favourite poems and poets but that's not what I'm doing today. While I may not have my old embarrassing poems to show you, today I'm going to share with you a much more recent embarrassing poem that I wrote.


I wanted to try and channel my inner slam poet and at the time I was pretty proud of this poem but now, reading it back, I can't help but cringe. I would really love to continue writing poetry, so I hope I can move passed this feeling of clamming up when I try to write and instead embrace the sense of vulnerability it gives me. I thought maybe doing a Bloo Does Poetry series might help. So for the first in the series we have... a generic love poem.

I think I found it easiest to fall in love when I was younger because I was clumsy.
I was all long limbs and two left feet, without the care or experience to manage them.
But I am no longer young, I have experienced.
I have lived through the fall and the pain of greeting the concrete pavement when nobody caught me.
Or when somebody dropped me.
I have stood up, dusted myself off and gotten back on the horse.
The bicycle too.
That clumsy love coming back to me with ease, despite my scraped knees and bruised elbows.

Sometimes butterflies in your stomach feel a lot like panic.
Sound a lot like your heart telling you to run. 
They get louder each time you’re forced to pick up the tattered pieces of their wings, stitch them back together and try again.
Fall again, but you brace for impact a little more every time.

No, I don’t fall so easily anymore.
I am no longer clumsy, I mind my step.
Now I move through life with a grace that only comes with age.
Only comes from being broken so many times your bones have no space left for cracks.
The realisation that even stumbling could leave you shattered, with no hope of being pieced back together.
It’s in this moment, as you hold the mangled butterflies in your hands, that you realise mending them is a futile endeavour. 
Instead you take their wings and you fashion your own. 
Because it’s harder to fall when you’re flying.

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