Acceptance

The me that loves labels was terrified at the thought of labeling what I write as ‘poetry’. I don’t know what else to call it. It’s not exactly prose. It’s not exactly nothing.

I guess I’m always prompt to put a label on things. I can’t stand not putting a label on things. I have this urge to define in words what I’m doing and what I am. In the end, everything is more meaningful than the word I have designated for it. Nothing can be reduced to a word or even a sentence. Everything is an infinite explanation of itself.

I love what I write. I love it intensely. Yet, what I love, I’m terrified of. I’m terrified of everything really, but especially of the fact that what I do can be classified as ‘poetry’. Especially of the fact that what I write can and will be judged by others based on its content and what they perceive as its meaning, which can never really be understood mainly because it is non-existent.

Maybe it’s because it constitutes a cliche. Once you tell people you write poetry, they gain the knowledge to judge you. They can create a mental image of you, reading your writing aloud in a small cafe, wearing a beret and playing the bongos. They can label you along with every other ‘poet’ and group you together in their train of thought which to some may be thrilling but I find it particularly upsetting. It’s not like they’re grouping you with the likes of Kurt Vonnegut or Don Delillo, which by the way are my favourite poets, they’re grouping you with every cartoon poet they’ve seen on TV.

All I do is write what I think. It’s also very strange that I can only express myself in an anonymous type of setting in which I’m not really sure who is reading what I write when what I write is exactly what I feel and don’t tell anyone. I had the notion that what I wrote was completely new and never done before and I know it’s not true but still it’s very disappointing to finally accept that it, in fact, has been done before, by others, who are better than me at it, and who are dead.

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