Like most horribly depressed young adults, I wrote a lot of shitty poetry in my day. Some of it was the predictable "I hate myself, what does it all mean?" stuff. Some of it was about God, and how I never quite felt good enough for him. And some of it was about the first boy I ever loved.
I don't write much poetry today—just the occasional verse or two for friends who turn it into songs. I've spend a very long time training my brain to think in novels, and it's difficult to step back from the big picture, to condense my feelings into vague rhymes. However, I'll always have a deep appreciation for poetry, for the hard times it brought me through, and certainly for those gifted enough to write it well.
Let the poets cry themselves to sleep
And all their tearful words
Will turn back into steam
"Enchanting Thought on Dim Situation"
By Michelle (Reeves) Bredeson
You: in intent masterpiece intrigue me once again
Deep heart covered by shallow veil of layered misconceptions
About thee: mystery
Intense in threatening severity
I see you now only in my mind's eye
Missing you is a ship that sails across my heart
You interrupted thoughts and ideas about who I was
You made me see, you made me believe in myself
Your face is painted across my thoughts—
Always invading my soul on a whim of inconvenience
And still I cannot let go of what you have become to me
So I sigh and go on
And wait in peace for your return