How Many Times Had I Let Myself

That’s What I Love About Poetry. The More Abstract, The Better. The Stuff Were Your Not Sure What The Poets Talking About. You May Have An Idea, But You Cant Be Sure. Not A Hundred Percent. Each Word, Specifically Chosen, Could Have A Million Different Meanings. Is It A Stand-in ―a Symbol For Another Idea? Does It Fit Into A Larger, More Hidden, Metaphor? ...i Hated Poetry Until Someone Showed Me How To Appreciate It. He Told Me To See Poetry As A Puzzle. Its Up To The Reader To Decipher The Code, Or The Words, Based On Everything They Know About Life And Emotions.

Josh Turns To Me. “i Can’t Believe She’s Writing These Things.” “not She,” I Say. “me.” “why Would Anyone Say This Stuff About Themselves On The Internet? It’s Crazy!” “exactly,” I Say. “i’m Going To Be Mentally Ill In Fifteen Years, And That’s Why My Husband Doesn’t Want To Be Around Me.

How In The World Was I Alone? Because I Wanted To Be. That's All I Can Say. It's All That Makes Sense To Me.

Because It May Seem Like A Small Role Now, But It Matters. In The End, Everything Matters.

This Time, For The First Time, I Saw The Possibilities In Giving Up. I Even Found Hope In It.