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Depressing Poems I Wrote as a Teen
I refused to part with my poem-filled journals when I was a teen. I was terrified of losing my carefully crafted creations, especially those that weren’t for the world’s eyes. I kept them in a backpack and took them everywhere, from my after-school job to parties with friends. I’m 37 now, and I still have a box of notebooks in my closet.
My father was in a local rock band, so I learned the value of artistic expression at a young age. We weren’t close, but I remember him getting frustrated when he forget the riffs for a guitar solo or couldn’t find a cassette tape with the recording he wanted. Some people thought he was crazy — and perhaps he was — but I understood the desire to hoard his creative achievements.
I’m not sure if he’s the reason I’m like this or if it’s just something creatives experience in general. Either way, I have no plans to change.
I began writing poetry when I was 11 or 12 years old, with the bulk of my work completed during my early teen years. As I grew older, my poems were replaced by how-to articles and SEO-rich marketing copy. I haven’t written a poem in years, but I haven’t forgotten how good it feels to let your thoughts unravel across the blank pages of a spiral-bound notebook.
My poetry helped me identify and understand problems in my life. When I was depressed, I wrote a poem about it. I chronicled my trials and triumphs with the swipe of a pen. When my boyfriend treated me like crap, I expressed my frustrations in my beloved notebook.
Medicine and therapy are great, but for me, nothing beats the healing power of releasing my pent-up emotions in written form.
Many of my poems were written in first-person format, but some of them were actually drafted with a friend or family member in mind. Please keep that in mind as you read them, as some of the traumatic events detailed below do not stem from my own life. It’s important for me to clarify the connection between these poems and my personal life for legal reasons. I’ll leave it at that.
But enough of my life story. I feel like one of those bloggers who dives into a 20-paragraph personal story about their grandma’s cookies…
