allpoetry

So today I did something that I've been thinking about for a while now: I removed all my poems from allpoetry. All 776 of them. I remember wanting when I was younger to be one of those people with 1000 or 2000 poems posted on there, but really, what does the number matter?

I didn't delete them for real, of course; I have them saved off on my computer. I just think I've moved beyond that site, and I didn't want to leave them up there, obligating me to return. I left my account up though, so I can go back and start writing there again if I feel like doping so in the future. But I think I've moved past it; I no longer have a deep-seated need for people to see and like my work. At the moment, I'm feeling much more like an Emily Dickinson: keep it all in a storage trunk, and some crazy relative can edit it to make it more PC and publish it when I'm dead.

Was it the best idea to do this on a down day? Probably not. But manic me didn't have the balls to do it, and I think it needed to be done. It's strange: for so long my allpoetry was my webpage, where I directed anyone who wanted to know more about me. But now, I've lost the need for it. I write in notebooks and on scraps of paper, and occasionally post things to my private journal. This feels to me like a big part of growing up and setting aside my emo teenage past, and really defining what poetry is to me: a way to make people like me and garner compliments; a cool dramatic thing to affix next to my name, like dreamer; or an inherent part of who I am--the burning need to put words on the page.


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Listening to: Exile by Enya, my old friend in times like these.