Keira is just a teenager, a lover and devoted friend of literature.
I don't know if it's understandable for more people but I've been thinking about this. Why do we love reading other's work? As in art they create?
For me, I think it's probably because of the search. Like, you read someone's work, and instantly, your brain is searching, and searching, what could possibly be the backstory? What was the writer thinking? Why was the writer sad? Am I missing clues?
And more weirdly, I love doing that to my own poems, the only difference being, I know exactly what I am doing to my readers this time.
So I guess, since I enjoy writing on here (I am blessed with this very appreciative and kind audience, thankyou guys you know who you are), I was planning a little series, like the poem, along with my interpretation, and well I can't wait to see how many people resonate with it!
(just to be clear, I will kill all of them I cannot outrun myself?)
my words dwell inside my bosom,
like a crown made of art,
they sit up, proud and fearless,
like my own story told in parts
sympathy rises below me,
and each above both of my arms
for this once in my life,
something is proud of my very scars
so I treasure away my poison,
in tiny bottles of mystical glass
and meekly lock them outside,
in view, yet
completely hidden from all night stars
I visit them in secret,
and pour away more of my own,
now they're towering over my wisdom,
and guiding my way back home
a curious figure hovers sometime,
almost locking in vision,
almost catching them at sight,
I wonder how it shrivels,
and yet moves away despite
maybe my own mind is the venom
and words, my impenetrable might
What is happening here?
For me, this poem talks about how close and intimate art is, to its creator.
My words, my poems, are a part of me, an offspring, something I own with pride and guilt combined.
But then there’s the fear, and the responsibility. What if they don’t believe me? What if they make fun of me? Was it sad enough? Was it happy enough?
People who read what you write, aren’t they standing with you through it? It’s like someone knows what’s happening, yet no one does. I call my feelings poison, stored in mystical glass bottles aka my poems, that I hide in plain sight.
Now someone knows, and of course they don’t.
And eventually? One of them gets really really close to the reality behind it, somebody out there might exactly understand what mood, or phase I was in when I wrote it.
But in the end, that’s how far they can go.
No one can ever know for sure what made me write it, what it exactly means and that’s for me, and only me to treasure, forever.