It may not be right, but it's the reality of the business.
I just had a nice comment on a poem I wrote in 2009; talk about bad poetry. That's a post I wish Tino would take down. It's ok, I was getting emotions out of my system, but a few people encouraged me and I kept going. Rejection letters suck, I've gotten them and I've sent them. Not because I wish to be hurtful, but when you put yourself in the public eye, you don't know what's going to happen. I've always been a writer, but poetry wasn't my thing until about six years ago. I've worked my butt off to improve and it's not easy. When I tell a young writer they can do better, it's because they've gotten my attention. Now you have to keep the public's attention. There are a billion sites on the web and I'm just guessing, worldwide, a million writing and poetry sites. On an average day I read about 50 and publish maybe three.
I started at TFS and all the good and nasty jibes got right back to me. I was on a mission to get better and get published. Today I can say that the work paid off. I write for myself, what I'm feeling. I put it away and little by little, fine hone it. If you're going to get upset when you get rejection, you don't belong in the field. If it's a hobby that helps you, keep writing. This is just my opinion, but I think it's valid. It's true when they say, "If everybody liked the same thing, they wouldn't make so many flavors of ice cream."
One of the hardest things with poetry is people's perception. They always think that it's about you. Well, I'm an observer, so most of the time, they're a bunch of characters in what I'm trying to say.
I got sick of people felling sorry for me when it was sad, so I finally wrote- "This one is About Me."
Don't get angry, get better.
This One is About Me
Every day, some days, once in awhile,
the photographs of my mind come
into focus, bombarding my cerebral
field with small glimpses of this time
called mine, only mine with views
shared with few, the most trusted who
may see parts of me, never the whole.
the entirety too complex, intricate
to be understood, even by myself.
Travels through life with feelings,
emotions, thoughts, only mine alone,
in a world too busy it overlooks a scream
for help or to help, in the longing to
be perfect; impossible for anyone
called human in any age any year.
Finally after watching, praying, dreaming
as the passage of time takes me down
good paths, pleasant trails, bumpy roads,
am I able to look at the pictures
as I am willing to see this person change.
Memories of painful gym class showers,
algebra class horror stories, first love,
first pain, first hurt, first God awful death,
help me to wade through what is good,
what isn't or what needs changing, as
aging passes through memories of becoming
"a woman", then becoming, "a woman",
a toiler, a wife, mother, whatever I wish
to be; place a smile which helps fight
the lines slowly forming around tired eyes,
moving my thoughts on in this page of my life,
never totally free of troubles, sorrow, laughter,
pushing me to ignore some words spoken which
just don't matter anymore, or never again.
Things that changed just never to be
restored will no longer cloud my vision from
seeing the person who is finally at peace in
this time and place where I can live with myself,
free from the shackles, which I'll no longer
carry, as I march with the army human to
capture happiness whenever possible, knowing
whatever ache strikes my body or heart, will be
interspersed with moments of laughter and love,
moving me on in my journey to truly survive
whatever is placed in my way, lingering only
infrequently to view the pictures of the past
which will remain with me, living in the photo
album of a life never again wasted pondering
everything that I might have become. I AM THIS.
sjo/jazz ©2010 rewritten 2012
It comes from the heart.