How Can I Write A Poem About Myself Novels & Stories

Just ink moving across paper. I didn’t write a manifesto. I didn’t craft a speech. I wrote a letter. Quiet and personal. Not to the world. Not to the past. To myself. I wrote about the stillness. About the way the mornings felt now. About the long road I had taken just to get here, to this soft morning sun and this cup of coffee and this skin I could finally sit inside without bracing. I didn’t name every trial. I didn’t need to recount every fall. I simply wrote what was true.

I’d brought every single bit of this pain on myself. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I pulled my laptop back onto my lap and flipped the screen open. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second, trembling, before I started typing...channeling all the self-loathing, heartbreak, and helpless guilt straight into the blank page. If real life was a mess I had ruined beyond repair, at least here, I could write something where people didn't tear apart the only good thing they had.

Does that still count as having a good sense of humor? Should I be worried that you refuse to tell me how you got to know my handle? Or is this you being mysterious? Either way, it's fine. I won't bother you about it again. I write everything, though I've never once completed a book. For the life of me, I can't. I'm not sure if it's lack of dedication, or writer's block, or whatever. And yes, poetry is my jam nowadays. You know what people say? It speaks to the soul, or something like that. I started with poetry about two years ago( I used to think only sappy people loved that shit), but now, not anymore. Especially recently.

Horace was the best candidate; I didn't even need to get my hands dirty. In the seventh year, Horace took me to see the maple leaves. The hills were painted red, full of wild energy and life. As we walked down the mountain, I silently took his hand. I wished that time could stand still in that moment.

In a swift pull, he pulled me upon himself, slamming into me faster as he spoke. “I’ve never told this to you… but you were my first poem, Kian. My first confession,” I gulped down my tears. “You remember?” “Every word,” he said. “Back then, I felt so much because of you that, even though I wasn’t a poet, I couldn’t find a better way to express my feelings than through a poem. And now I understand why those poets can’t stop writing about their muse. It’s painful to experience an infinity of emotions for one person, yet have such finite words to define them.”

I had a book filled with poems I composed myself. I took out a pen from my bag and luckily, after searching the room, I found a stack of papers in one of the bedside drawers. It wasn't luck as much as it was Esme's doing. She was the only one that knew about my little hobby. She had said it was a form of release for me. Perhaps she was right. I found myself writing everytime I needed to express myself and I'd never considered letting anyone see my poems. They were more personal than they were art.

Kyle looked up from his book and asked, "What exactly are you finding difficult?" "I don't know. I guess it's what the poem is supposed to be based on that's the problem." I ran a hand through my hair. We were to write on the deepest feeling of our lives, pain that we believe defines us, be it the past or the present. A deep story to tell. 'I want to feel your passion... Your pain.' Said Professor Lopez. But I had no idea what to write about because my mind was totally blank. I exhaled and asked Kyle, "What've you got?"

If my mother was alive I might share some with her, maybe even write her one like I do whenever the pain of her loss is too much to bear. I write for a while losing track of time as I place my pain and frustration into words then something on the breeze reminds me of someone else and the poems take a different turn. In my darkest hour Thoughts of her sear my brain Burning desire all but consumes me Her touch is all that could ease my pain Eyes like pools that I want to drown in The stars above have nothing on her She’s the beauty that I Admire from afar I long to hold her and make her mine

My father always said that the wilderness lives in me, bringing storms and raging winds through my skin for the world to feel. So I become the wilderness itself. I gather all my strength, all the storms inside me, all the blizzards and wind. The feel of power rise in me, energy filling my body once again. I jump to my feet, ignoring the crushing pain in my left thigh and brace myself for what I am about to do. I will most likely get instantly killed by this fucker, but it's better than all of this shit. And well, I do a lot of stupid shit when I'm angry. So, going against all my instincts, I bare my teeth, push myself forward and jump on blue eyed monster to rip his throat out.

I feel this is my mind imitating is voice and I say. "Jayden, you don't know, I like you. I like you so much, and cannot tell you, you're more handsome than this ugly duckling, me. And also, now, I got to know your family status is as this, you're not for Me." My face twitched. "I will pray for so much money next time I come to the world so, you can like me." I say, some small romance imagination starts to feel my heart. How would it be, me and him, in a picnic, and I will feed him with my bare hands.