When I was an innocent teenager (pause for laughter) and a boy wronged me or righted me (I know that word is highly incorrect and very rarely had a boy ‘righted’ me) I would pick up my pen and journal and write a poem. I am not claiming to be a Sylvia Plath (my poems were never as good or as emo), it will be a compliment to even be likened to Emma Robert’s whiney character in Unfabulous (yes, I watched Unfabulous and I’m unashamed) but poetry was an out for me to express my feelings in a way that wasn’t as public as talking or as open and descriptive as journaling.
Over the last few months, the amount of poems I have written has declined immensely, this could because I have not been hurt enough in order to passionately express in poetry, but rather oddly I am now sitting on 4097 tweets. The sad thing is that life has became too fast-paced for me to wait to get home to get my favourite leather-bound journal in order to gush about my day, I need to describe it 140 characters or less, attempting to maintain the cryptic, ambiguous and mysterious tone I had with my terrible dramatic poetry. So in many ways I would like to think that I’ve grown out of lines like “Then he looked at me/And everything around me faded away” (Bleugh! Eew! Shut up!) but I know that all that has changed is the medium that I use. I still give in tweeting things like “Interested to see once all the excuses have lapsed” which noone who follows me would understand.