I just spent almost two hours on the road thinking about how to write this post. I was traveling back from Lincoln where I competed in a poetry slam. The winner represents the state of Nebraska at the Blackberry/ Peach national slam this summer.
I got last.
That means the judges scored my poem and my performance the lowest out of all the competitors.
Last.
I’ve been working on my delivery, my pauses, my speed and pronunciation of words, especially throughout the whole poem. To speak clearly at the end as I do at the beginning.
I got last.
And right now, when adding other poetic endeavors, I quit.
I have been writing poetry since junior high. I have self published six books of poetry, participated in the April Poem a Day for five years. I have been sharing my works during The Jam, a weekly poetry / spoken word / music space on X for at least 80 some episodes. I have notebooks, post-it notes, and other scrap paper with rough drafts of poems.
Right now, I don’t care.
The frustration and heartache of trying to be a poet is too much. My confidence is shaken. My chest hurts. This feeling sucks. It seems that I deal with more negative aspects of chasing this dream than positive moments. My tank is empty.
So, today, I quit.
Now, tomorrow?
Well, that is a different poem.
It is all Connected 