Poetry, Doubt, and Why I Write It

And why you should write it too

I doubt every poem I’ve ever written.

While writing, my inner voice tries to stop me from writing more. It uses not-so-helpful terms like ‘your poetry is shit,’ ‘you have nothing interesting to say.’

That voice can (ever-so-politely) take a good-old fuck to itself.

That voice is the quivering ego, terrified of what it might discover through the poetic process. After all, what is the true art of writing if not a gut spill of the subconscious mind that, once the ego is aware, has to reckon with?

When I spot themes in my poetry — akin to how I spot themes across multiple written-down dreams — I tend to find things that are amiss in my psyche, often things that need healing.

Many poems I’ve written have had themes of having something stuck in my throat — shovels, muck, slipknots, coils. I’ve felt the tang of rust spread over my tongue, waves of tar thicken in my mouth, names of dead friends press up against my teeth.

What do all these mean?

I’ve felt it difficult (at times) to speak properly, to say what I really wanted to say for fear of judgment, social ostracization, or being too exposed.

My ego’s voice has dragged me down. When compounded with various rejections from literary magazines for my poetry, I get the sense my work is a wasted effort — and that feeling strengthens the ego’s ‘I-told-you-so.’

But it’s never a wasted effort. Poetry knows no gatekeeper. Its true power of healing and its potential vessel of transformation exists in the act of writing (and its subsequent editing). It happens again when it is shared: read aloud to a group or sent to others to read privately. When discussed, my understanding of myself and the person I’m talking to deepens in the same way that when I discuss other people’s poems, my understanding of myself and them deepens.

I love what I write: I am the first audience for these poems — if I don’t love it, then why would I do it in the first place? Of course, there are times writing is frustrating; the right words don’t come, and the final poem lacks the emotional intensity of the feeling in the body and mind; it runs tooth-first into a mirrored wall of abstraction.

Some others love the poems, some are indifferent, and some dislike them. Does it truly matter? The power and influence poetry has had on my life are incalculable.

It saved me from suicidal tendencies when I was younger. Got me through the toughest depressions. Allowed me to grieve the passing of a friend healthily. Helped bring about physical, emotional, and spiritual transformation. Connected me to others when social anxiety ate the better part of my nature.

We are all, somewhere deep inside us, expressive creatures: poets, singers, dancers, artists. . . I’m not being hyperbolic when I say what I truly believe: expression can drastically change lives for the better and save lives from ending too soon.

To silence that ego, I write through its criticisms. I learn more about myself every day I write. And it not only makes me more fulfilled, but it also makes me a better person: more empathetic to others, more engaged and open-eared and hearted to others, kinder and more compassionate.

What has poetry (or art) done for you? How do you deal with the complex relationship you have with your expression? Engage with me: I need that dialogue.