Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash
General Blog, writing

Poems from the past

I found some old thumb drives the other day trying to clean up the house and just got around to seeing if they had anything of value on them.

A few old photos, some old advertisements for the horse I had in high school, copies of the novel I’m forever working on, some writings from classes back in the day. Going through it all brings up the past and how much I actually loved writing. How much I really liked creating this new world in my head. Before social media took over my extra time, I actually spent a lot of it writing and reading.

Before social media was an easy escape writing and reading was my escape. Words didn’t always come easy, pages didn’t always beg me to read more, but it was an escape I could create. I was able to get thoughts out of my head and on paper, even if no one was ever going to read them. I felt lighter when I had pen to paper or fingers to a keyboard.

Maybe I need to pick it up again, maybe I need to block social media and stop letting other’s thoughts fill my mind and let my imagination run again.

Two poems I wrote back in high school (just about 9 years ago?!) seemed appropriate to post here. Untouched after years they rise to the surface only to be lost in the pages of an unknown blog. But it sure does feel good to put fingers to keys and create something that no one else could.


I am told to write what I please
To discover imagination within
To just write.
Write no matter what it says.
Write no matter what comes out.
I am conforming to
This poem needs details
Show me, don’t tell me
Avoid clichés
How is that unique?
Why does it make you feel that way?
You need to put more time into it
How can,
I just write?
How can,
My writing be free?
How can it flow?
When I have to carefully pick each word
When I must pick the best word
Must I always be specific?
Must everything be a metaphor?
Why can I not just write?
How can I be criticized for my thoughts?
I cannot change how I think
My mind may be vague
It may not see the metaphor within
My writing follows its own path
But I am conforming
To write you must
You must not write by
The rules of your own
I am writing by
Rules of others

The Air I Breathe

The air I breathe,
Is still.
Calm, crisp
Nothing pollutes it
Nothing hides beneath

The air I breathe,
Is wild.
Heart and soul
Of me
Tastes of pine
Cut grass
Running water

The air I breathe,
Is me.
It is freedom.
It is captivity
The air is me.

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