I was recently asked by a friend of mine why I no longer write poetry. It seems like an easy enough question to answer and I ran through the litany of quick answers my mind bubbled up for lack of time to think it over properly.
"I don't have the time for it anymore. I don't have the same inspiration I used to. I just don't feel like it."
The third answer holds the most truth, but even that is only a kernel. The most facetious of the three happens to be the second. The most brazen lie is the first. I'm fond of working backward, so I suppose that makes sense.
Now that I've had a little more time to mull over the question, I think I've settled on a more honest answer.
It's true that I don't feel like it. Mostly because I no longer feel the same attachment to the emotions I was using to fuel my desire to write. I also don't drink as much as I used to, and I'm not so sad as I was. It's a tough part to admit, but almost every poem I ever wrote is missing the companionship of a memory of writing it. I know there's that old quote from Hemingway, "Write drunk, edit sober," but I decided I would value something that came from my sober thoughts more than something I scratched together after an evening of carousing.
It's somewhat true — in a tongue-in-cheek fashion — that I don't have the same inspiration I used to either. 2017, the year that I wrote the majority of my poems, was a hard year for me. I was suffering from depression that I wasn't just willfully avoiding treating, I was actively taking steps to make it worse — both consciously and subconsciously. I've already mentioned the drinking. However, I was torturing myself by actively setting myself up in positions where I might fail, or where the dark thoughts I had about myself would seemingly be proven to me. If you look for any answer hard enough you're going to find it, even if it isn't the right one.
As for not having the time for it, complete bunk. I have more than enough time for writing. I just have a bad habit of allocating it poorly.
In a roundabout way, I think I've just grown to be someone new. 2017 was only two years ago, but a great many things have changed in those two years. My depression is becoming more manageable — most days; I don't have the same daily fears and anxieties that used to plague me; and, for the most part, I don't even enjoy the poems I've written anymore.
When something stops being enjoyable for me, I've learned it's best to move on to find something that can take up its place. Stagnation is the worst thing for me, especially at this time in my life; and I can't tell any better stories for just staying in the same place.
So, I'm quite finished with poetry. But I'm far from finished with writing.
