Vienna

This is silly.

But I feel like things have just changed.

That things were better when poetry was something nobody but me had to know about.

Before people began to take notice.

But it's my fault really, letting my little secret flitter away from me.

Letting people in through this little window.

I feel as though poets are hated and sappy.

I feel like teenage poets are degraded and angsty.

I am no poet,

Just a writer of poems.

I am torn, as to whether I want to

Be a poet, let these happenings blossom,

Or if I'd much rather be an introvert, and retract my poems from the hands of people.

I feel like writing poetry about poetry.

I feel like crying a little bit.

It's a weird feeling.

I hate when attention is drawn to my works.

I hate when people praise me for them.

The poems don't deserve praise,

Just deserve to be free.

Just to provide solace from my head,

I let them spin out,

And there they are.

And I hate talking about poetry,

Because I am simply not that good.

I am no Dickinson, no Poe, no Emerson or Whitman.

I am just this girl who likes to write things,

Loves to write things, more so.

But I just don't like attention.

Don't like praise,

It makes me drown.

Makes me nervous.

Gives me more reasons to be worried and fretful.

More time to look at who I am.

I want to get distant.

Take a step or two

Or twelve away.

And just crawl into my hiding places and continue on my merry way.

Sure, I'll admit,

Talking to people about poetry is fascinating and lovely and beautiful,

But I feel selfish and icky and degraded afterwards.

Poetry is an eternal love affair.

It's like a crutch when all else fails.

You love it, and you damn it.

And it can be kind or brutal.

It can rip you to pieces and take you to the brink of your sanity.

But it'll coddle you and soothe you and heal your wounds, too.

It'll calmly pull you from the brink.

Like I said,

It's the eternal love affair

That all art really is.

I am no poet,

No artist, either.

But it's been said that I am both of these things,

Both.

And how is that so?

How can you define an artist?

How could I be one?

What makes an artist?

I am not sure.

Maybe I never will be sure.

Maybe I will never be an artist.

Maybe I already am and there is no escaping my fate.

Maybe I have a talent.

And I'm not so sure how I feel about that.

I am simply offput by the idea, right now.

Right now I am damning my poetic obsession,

I am damning those who indulge it,

And praise it.

And at the same time,

I am rejoicing and falling in love with this poetic idea

All over again.

If I could not write,

I would have nothing.

Not even myself.

But as I continue to write,

I am not so much losing myself,

As finding myself.

I am not so much becoming distant

As I am becoming closer and more intertwined.

And the more people I let into this window,

The more I regret it,

And regret it.

And yet I embrace every aspect.

This is horrible.

All because of

That stupid white envelope

That proclaimed I was one of twelve winners.

That said an excerpt would be published in the paper.

That made my parents so proud.

That may eventually break me down

Into dust.

Because it's always "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes", right?

And I've got three more contests coming up.

And I am just horrified.

Adieu,

I hope you are not caught up in a tedious love affair with an art form.