“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
And yet
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
Growing, perhaps,
Maturing, maybe,
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
They’ll simply

Written March 13, 2014


Who do you say that I am?

I’ve been reflecting recently on the role of anonymity and persona with regards to blogging. See, people follow blogs because they like what they see — partly the writing, but also the writer. If the writer insists upon signing everything with a username and keeps, say, a painting of Calvin and Hobbes as a profile picture, she hovers in space, ephemeral, a mysterious entity that’s harder to pin down for lack of an anchor. There’s no name, no face, just a hazy cloud of attributes assembled from words.

If you aren’t given a mental image to work with, you’ll create your own. What am I, in your head? A storm cloud, to match my theme colors? A living Calvin or Hobbes? A deity living among spiraling galaxies? A little girl with her heart on her sleeve? A mature woman with the tenacity to take on the world? A man, because somewhere along the way you missed my gender? A capricious little blog fairy, dancing across your screen?

I’m genuinely curious. Who do you think I am?