I’ve been on a poetry kick lately. Word expression is always where I flee whenever my depression acts up. Poetry lets me say things in a roundabout way, lets me say what I want to say without having to put it out there in plaint, blunt language. Poetry lets me write with raw emotion, to use the figurative for what is too hard, too awkwardly broken to say in the literal. There is power in poetry, too. There’s power in the crafting of words to create a song, to paint a picture, to entwine a reader in the words and leave them with more knowledge than they had before yet still wondering perhaps what it all “really means.” Poetry lets me escape the world of cold hard fact and seek refuge in metaphor and possibility. It’s a world of fantasy and fiction, the world of poetry. It’s a world of story, where I am the tale-writer. I can spin my reality any way I want, instead of having to face the wounds and scabs of flat-out retelling.
Yet poetry is often the most real, for all of its imagery. Poetry lets me portray who it is I seem to be to myself, the most raw form of identity. Poetry lets me show the world as I feel it, the pages of my story as my head understands them. Poetry is my mind living on a page. And that, I think, is the most true form of me.
So poetry isn’t really all that escapist then, is it?