I was once a poet
by Andrew S Adams
For a time in my adolescence
I was once a poet, complete
with the requisite pretensions
and condescension that comes therewith;
I could distill the world around me,
and reconcile it with the world inside me;
Sometimes, I look back and have to cringe;
at fifteen, my facilities as an observer
far surpassed my ability to express that which i observed,
attempting to coax the complexities
of an existence i had no way of understanding
into a defining statement;
At the time, it felt as if i was succeeding.
These days, It's the other way around;
I am fully equipped
to articulate the nuances and themes
that constitute my consciousness
but the older i get
the less i care about these
nuances and themes,
and the less i can see why anyone else might, either.
As a poet you have to be convinced that
your personal universe is important to others;
narcissism, ugly as it is, drives all creation
and when I came to the understanding that
my experience is worth no more than any other
(or less, for that matter)
I could no longer find the will to say
much of anything.
Words come out at right angles, obfuscating
any meaning that might come from it.
The point is no longer in expressing anything;
I spend infinite days searching for intricate ways
of saying nothing at all;
judge my failure as a success
or my success as a failure.
Posted on 07/24/2011
Copyright © 2020 Andrew S Adams
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by John Stevens on 07/24/11 at 11:02 PM|
That is the way it is with youth. They know it all until they get older. Good write.
|Posted by E. A. Pugh on 07/25/11 at 05:03 AM|
Very interesting poem, if I had all the smart words to describe it beautifully I would but… I got ants in my pant and I hula dance. Your poem held me and I will read it again.
|Posted by George Hoerner on 12/02/14 at 03:11 AM|
I'm not sure that any of us do any better. Or that we truly understand why we write as we do.