Certain Things to Fear - Remembering Why I am Here

One thing all writers - and books on writing - seem to have in common is this simple message: read much and read often.  I'm constantly being told to read everything, especially those authors and poets that focus particularly in genres that I plan on writing.  Now, I haven't decided on a single genre yet - I'm keeping myself open until I grow into my skills as a writer - but I do have a few 'favorite' writers.
Recently I've taken to reading a lot of the works written by George Saunders and Neil Gaiman - especially the latter.  I've always loved the way Gaiman approaches fiction: a mixture of fantasy and horror that touches on the deeper musings of what it means to be a 'person.'  Combine that approach with Saunders' ability to depict human nature in an uncanny, revealing way and you've got a style that I think matches what I hope to do.

However, sometimes I get so caught up in short fiction, fantasy, and large novel concepts that I forget what introduced me to the world of writing in the first place: poetry.  Most people have always told me that poetry is a nightmare for them: difficult to write and often more difficult to understand.  I have always maintained - and still do to this day - that poetry is as simple as looking inward, and letting the writing come out naturally. There are many ways to present the creative nature of yourself, and all you have to do is find what works best for you.

That's what I think, anyway.

Writing Prompt:

Neil Gaiman - The Fairy Reel

Which leads me to today's work: a poem inspired by a fun little rhyme tucked away in a collection of short stories by the master of the macabre himself: Neil Gaiman.  It's a strange little thing that needs a lot of work, but I present it to you know for your opinion and general reading pleasure.

Please, let me know what you think!

Poetry

TITLE: Certain Things to Fear

You see there truly are some things in me

     in which, at times, I do believe.

A fear for all things I cannot see

     a darkness waiting with sharpened teeth.

With baited breath I often peak

     around the corners of my mind

and through the gaps between my hands

     at what new terrors I might find.

what beast lies dormant beneath the sheet

     what ghost haunts my past?

What buried memory will come

     and drag me down at last?

'Tis an interesting thought, no doubt

     one which keeps me up many nights;

because even the fearless among us

     are afraid to turn out certain lights.

and so when i close my weary eyes

     and at last open up my mind

I find myself wishing on a star

     that I could leave my demons all behind.

Instead the shadows lengthen here

     in this place of yesterdays and none

and from this nightmare I awake

     to be thrust into another one.

I look to you and her, my friends

     to him and it and me.

To tell if monsters do exist - 

     to come and set me free. 

An Introduction: Thoughts on The Way We Name Things

Source: Tardisio

For months, I’ve been debating about what the subject of my first post ought to be.  I’ve been reading and rereading everything that I’ve written, I’ve deleted and scrapped opening and transitioning sentences, and put more work into crafting a blog post than I almost ever felt I had to do in my 6 years as an English Major.  It took me until quite recently to really put my finger on the source of all this anguish – all of this self-imposed discomfort:

I wanted people to like me.

That is the simple truth of the matter, one that I am only too willing to share.  I wanted people to like me, which is a feeling I have not had in years.  Not since my time at Franklin Academy High School, in fact.  A time where I was the quiet, bookish kid in the back of the class, lashing out at teachers and walking the length of my town and the ones next to it just to get away – a time where I would have done anything to find someone to identify with. 

Which, when all was said and done, I did. 

That’s not really the point, however.  The point is that I sat here, staring at the cold blue light of my monitor for weeks on end, reading the paragraphs above over and over again, trying to impress a bunch of faceless strangers who know less about me than most people who actually know my name.  That is, until I finally realized why:

Because people matter.