Poetry Doesn't Have To Rhyme, It Just Has To Touch Someone Where Your Hands Couldn't.

I've got to say I did not expect poets to actually die in the dead poets society.

Cogito, Ergo Sum

I write ugly things.

That’s who I am.

I expel the bad onto paper.

Otherwise it gets stuck in me. Emotional constipation.

That’s probably why people hurt each other.

They need to get rid of it. The ache.

Can’t keep it in. Easiest way to get rid of hurt is to pass it onto someone else.

Most readers like it though. The hurt.

Look at Bukowski and Hemingway. They’re successful. Apart from the alcoholism and suicide.

I don’t understand them all that well.

You’re too young to understand, they tell me.

I don’t know about that.

I think I just don’t understand men who create their own suffering.

I’ve had enough pain. Disease and dead friends and all that.

Good thing for a writer though. To suffer.

Suffering brings validity to narrative.

I hate that.

I hate that perspective only matters if the writer has gone through something horrible.

Suffering adds to character. Solidifies it.

I also hate that.

Identity should not be so fickle.

It should be made of curiosity, interests, relationships, passion, and peace.

It should be made, fostered, cared for.

Not victimized.

But maybe that’s just the way we are.

We must rot so that others will salvage our blossoms.

We must dish out counterfeit pain to remember we are alive.

Mortal.

Look at me, you say, beaten red.

I bleed therefore I am.

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The intimacy of answering the phone “Hey you.” The intimacy of stopping to wait when someone needs to tie their shoe. The intimacy of knowing when someone’s voice is thick with worry or sleep. The intimacy of singing (badly) with someone in the car. The intimacy of huddling together under a shelter/umbrella. The intimacy of instantly recognising someone’s handwriting. The intimacy of trying to make plans and, “Oh no we can’t, you’re working that day.” The intimacy of matching your pace to theirs as you walk. The intimacy of being there for someone as they cry. The intimacy of “How did you know that?” “Because I know you.” The intimacy of feeling someone’s warmth through their clothes when you hug. The intimacy of being given change that’s warm from the heat of someone else’s hand. The intimacy of shared, comfortable silence. The intimacy of knowing how someone would react. The intimacy of keeping the radio off when someone falls asleep on a long car journey. The intimacy of sharing one earbud each. The intimacy of noticing someone’s nervous habits. The intimacy of “I had a dream about you.” The intimacy of inside jokes. The intimacy of feeding someone food as they drive (or really any other time). The intimacy of knowing just how someone likes their tea/coffee. The intimacy of trying something new together and having no idea what you’re doing; the shared hesitancy. The intimacy of someone saying “Text me when you’re home safe.” The intimacy of someone falling asleep next to you. On your shoulder. In your company. The intimacy of sharing secrets in the nighttime, because 3am will never tell. The intimacy of someone’s pet recognising you and coming over to say hello. The intimacy of “This made me think of you.” The intimacy of borrowing a jacket still warm from their body heat.  The intimacy of seeing someone’s unfocused eyes when they first wake up. The intimacy of ordering food and “shall we share it?” The intimacy of someone sharing the meaning behind their tattoos. The intimacy of just looking at someone and dissolving into laughter together.

I find it so beautiful that we all read the same poetry and miss different people. 

something that really hits me is the way neil reads the opening poem by thoreau at the very first dps meeting. the way after he finishes reading the poem he takes a moment to himself in order to take in what he’s just read. you can tell that these words genuinely mean something to him and that he really resonates with them. i think it’s in that moment that he fully understands what keating means by carpe diem. especially the last line “and not, when i came to die, discover that i had not lived.” it’s so beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time