Okay, so I think most, if not all of us went through an angsty teenage phase and, convinced no-one has known anguish quite like we have, we wrote poetry that we thought would be ground breaking.

We thought we’d write something that would give someone a peek into the depths of our soul.

Up there with all the greats.

Earth shattering literature, born of our ‘great suffering’.

No?

Just me?

Well this is awkward. Thought I was being hella relatable then.

But, hear me out, have you tried doing it as an adult?

Please, next time you’re feeling those ‘big feelings’, just try whacking out some crappy poetry. I promise you it will make you feel better.

Use all the lurid metaphor’s you want, go back to your GSCE English, where a sunset could never truly be a sunset and flood that bad boy with all the clumsy symbolism you could ever want.

Do every crappy half rhyme, do clumsy Iambic Pentameter. Create awkward ‘edgy’ stanzas that don’t follow a particular pattern or logic.

Do you have to show it to anyone? Hell no! Well, maybe to a therapist if you feel it’ll be relevant (I dread to think what would ever happen if one got hold of my drafts and ideas book, which is a truly terrifying glimpse into my mind).

In all seriousness, there is a power to giving words to a feeling and if you’re not the journalling type, badly scribbled poetry could be an interesting avenue to explore…

Plus what if you have a hidden talent for it that you’ve never explored? You could be the next big thing.

People dabble in most forms of art throughout their lives and I just need you to know that you don’t have to be some great wordsmith to enjoy creating poetry.

Anyway, that’s it, just a quick post about the virtues of being a terrible poet.

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