I used to write poetry. I used to surround myself with people who did the same. In college I was a co-founder of the writers’ guild. We met weekly and shared new stuff, and eventually we put on shows. In peace corps I did haiku challenges over text message and scrawled in my journal regularly.


These days the urge…the passion…the compulsion to put pen to paper in that way is gone. And I miss it.


For so long my writing was a part of my identity – like my hair or talking fast. Anyone who knew me was likely to mention any of those things to describe me. S has never known me that way…big hair and big mouth yes…but never as a writer.


And it is sad to me – not because I was some new Pablo Neruda or Nikki Giovanni, but because it was a way for me to capture my life and retain not just the events that happen, but the feelings that go with them.


There are some poems that I’ve written over the years that evoke a wave of nostalgia, an ache of love, the searing of betrayal. And while not always pleasant, they take me back to an experience and help me to convey it to others.


I’d like to think my poetic pen is simply misplaced and that one day soon I’ll turn a corner or rearrange my life in such a way that it appears to me again, rolling out from the dust and ready to write.

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