When did we stop writing for ourselves?

I have known poetry since ages. Always been intrigued by the way famous poets weave a string of words into such deep meaning sentences with soulful elements and beautiful paragraphs. Like music without the tune. Like thoughts without the noise. Poetry has always been something that fascinated me. And when I realised that we have such wonderful poets in modern world too, it made me so happy. I am always glad to share my poems with people who understand them, who can read between the lines of my poorly written verses, who can give a new meaning to the poems I write.

But alas, in this world of rush and reputation, some of us lose the war. We slowly start looking for appreciation, acceptance and approvals. We start making poems that don’t feel like ours. Isn’t poetry meant to be ours? I feel like it should be something out of our skin, something that can only mold with our soul perfectly while others just read it to realise how we see the world.

When did poems become a performative act?

Nowadays, majority of the people are hypnotised by the social rush. They are creating poems just for the sake of getting likes, titles and something that they can show off. Books are being published just because they want the title of author beside their name. Quotes are being shared that are so common that every nine out of 10 posts have the same words written in a different way.

When did we lose this battle against social media? When did we start looking at our poems from the scrutinising eyes of something that is so fickle?

For me, poetry is hidden in my old diary pages, bleeding with ink that’s so secret that I am scared to show them even to my own eyes. Poems are a part of our soul that we write on paper to keep it safe, to keep it as a memory. I have been several versions of myself and each one has a story to tell; each one has a poem to recite. It is extremely a saddening sight to see when writers lose their spark just because they don’t get enough fame. I hate seeing poets become soulless when other people don’t relate to the things they write. I feel nauseated when I see generic quotes float around with no real soul in them. It is truly sad to see how people are just following along and not creating, not writing, not bleeding.

Like what are you waiting for? Just write?

Poems are a way poets bleed, pouring their heart into a mere piece of paper so that they can touch the lines with their bruised fingertips to feel the pain of the poetry over and over again. Even when your heart heals, these poems always contain the pain you have once felt. And that is exactly what poetry is. I have this hope in me that we will finally break through this barrier of social media and write for who we are. I hope we finally write from the ink that bleeds out of our own skin and not ink that we have collected along the way.

Poetry is meant to be our own, our soul, a thing only we understand and I hope we don’t sell it out just for the sake of robotic phrases that don’t soothe the ache that has formed beneath our beating heart.

And to the people who think they have lost their spark, to the people who think their poems aren’t enough, may you know that it was never about the fame. Poems that you write are solely yours and it is our privilege to read them when you share them to the world. You are not obliged to share the pieces you create meticulously. It is your choice that you are letting the world see a part of you that you have hidden in pages of your notebooks.

It doesn’t need to be rhythmic, systematic or aesthetic. Poetry is supposed to be harsh, raw and desperate. Have you ever seen a wound bleed out in a rhythmic pattern? No right? Just like that poetry doesn’t have to always have rhyming words. It is the chaos in your mind that you try to clear when you write them down. It is your weapon of saving yourself from the harshness of the world.

And I truly hope, that poetry finds you again. In the exact warm way it has once found you long time back when you were just a pre teen who sat alone in your small room and whispered, “Why me?”.

The writer is a Class XII student of The Tribune School, Chandigarh