Poetry is a peculiar thing, isn’t it? So delicate, yet so defiant. It has this uncanny ability to whisper truths that we’d rather scream but can’t. Anyway, let me tell you about how poetry became my secret weapon—not against the world, but against my own tempestuous emotions. And how, remarkably, it rescued me from a not-so-fun childhood situation that could rival a soap opera or maybe a reality show, depending on your taste for drama.

So here’s the deal: my dad, bless his invasive little heart, thought it was a splendid idea to treat my journal like his personal treasure map to my soul. Now, I don’t know about you, but a journal is supposed to be sacred. A refuge, a place where you can spill all the glorious messiness of your thoughts without fear of repercussions. But my dad turned it into a weapon, one that he wielded with the precision of someone determined to sculpt my mind into a smaller, less colorful shape. If I wrote something he didn’t like, I’d be punished, as if it were my fault for having thoughts that didn’t align with his worldview. Can you imagine? Being told your *thoughts* were problematic? I was essentially living in a psychological dictatorship—no journaling freedom, no venting, no emotional liberation. Just pure, unadulterated control. And let me tell you, that kind of environment breeds creativity in the most chaotic of ways.

Now, I’d like to say I was a model child who handled this gracefully, but no. I was resourceful, yes, but also determined to find loopholes and ways to sidestep their nonsense. Journaling had been my main outlet, but with that safe space turned into the equivalent of an emotional crime scene, I had to pivot. And pivot I did—though not without stumbles. In the absence of an outlet, I turned to self-harm. It was dark, messy, and absolutely not the vibe. I promise I’ll write more about that another day because, thank goodness, that story has a good ending. But suffice it to say, I needed something else—something that could serve as my emotional landfill without exposing me to punishment. Enter poetry.

Ah, poetry. What a strange, magical creature. At first, it seemed like it wouldn’t work. Too obvious, too transparent. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized poetry could be my Trojan horse. If I constructed my poems carefully enough—bright, cheery facades on the outside with layers of buried feelings underneath—I could express everything I wanted without anyone catching on. It was like writing in code, but the kind of code that only certain people could crack. You know, the kind of people who’ve felt what you’ve felt and know what those carefully chosen words really mean.

Instead of exploring butterflies, I once wrote about icicles—a far sharper metaphor for emotions that cut deep. They hung precariously from the ledge, delicate arrows fashioned by winter’s cold precision. I used their beauty, their deadly points, to capture the sting of feelings that, while painful, were necessary for growth. Here’s a fragment of that poem:

A flash of light
Oh so cold
Like cutting blades
Hanging from the ledge
Beautiful yet deadly
The white upon frozen ground
Sparkling with shine
The ledge above
Decorated with love
That hang from the stone
Far above
The shining cone
Far above
Sharp to a point
Winter’s delight.

It was a strange thing, writing about something so icy, so unforgiving, and finding solace in its sharp edges. The icicle, with its fragile elegance, became a symbol of those less pleasant emotions—ones that can cut deep and leave scars, yet are somehow vital to understanding ourselves. Poetry gave me the freedom to explore both the pain and the necessity of those feelings without exposing myself to criticism or punishment. Even my dad, in his futile attempts to decipher my words, never caught on. He’d see winter imagery and think I was waxing poetic about snowflakes or sledding, completely missing the layers of grief and resilience hidden in plain sight.

Over time, poetry became more than just an escape—it became a way to refine my emotions and turn chaos into clarity. Writing fragmented poetry felt like stitching together pieces of myself in a way that made sense, even if the world didn’t. And oh, the humor I managed to sneak in! I’d write lines so absurd they bordered on comedic, all while carrying the weight of something serious underneath.

It wasn’t just the act of writing that saved me; it was the realization that language could be molded, twisted, and shaped into whatever form I needed. Poetry didn’t demand perfection or even coherence—it just demanded honesty, delivered in whatever cryptic package I saw fit. And for a kid like me, who lived under the watchful eye of parents determined to control even her thoughts, poetry was the ultimate rebellion.

Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Journaling became a minefield, yet here I am, years later, writing about my emotions in ways that closely resemble journaling. More poetry sparking, not just from sadness and pain, but from light and hope. Life has a funny way of flipping things around, doesn’t it? Poetry gave me the tools to process emotions that may otherwise have consumed me, but it also gave me a sense of freedom I didn’t even realize I needed. And while it wasn’t always pretty, it was mine. My chaos, my humor, my fragmented little world stitched together in verse.

I drove my teachers nuts, as I had my own style and could not write the way they desired. I would look at them and say “Edgar Allan Poe did not follow the rules of his time and look at his poetry today, a teaching tool and loved by many.” If that didn’t work I would mention in a sassy way as only a teen can. “I am a published poet, are you?” My last one was Shakespeare as he to did not conform to the rules. It is hard to argue with that fact that I need to write the way that they wanted. I had my own style and quite frankly, I could not break from it even now. It is me, it is how I write, raw and unedited (minus spelling of course), off the cuff. Random things float through my mind, sparking the words that must flow, right then and there. They will not be held back, it is a delight, to know that I still can hide, deeper meaning deep within my written work.

These days, I still write poetry, though it’s less about disguising emotions and more about exploring them. I’ve found that the same rules—or lack thereof—apply, and the freedom to write what I want remains just as exhilarating as it was back then. Sure, I’ve moved past the need for “bright and cheery” facades, but my poetry still carries the same rebellious spirit. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest times, there’s room for creativity, chaos, and maybe just a little bit of humor. Yet as I said, still filled with deeper meaning, not all can get yet all can feel the words in the way they need. I do not tell what inspires as I desire to know how it resonates with others as it tells all so much.

And as for my dad? Let’s just say I still can not keep a journal, not the traditional way at least. Some habits are hard to break. Yet here I am now, keeping a journal that is not quite a journal and sharing it with the world, yet still my poetry has deeper meaning hidden within. How we change and yet stay the same is fascinating to see, when we stop and reflect. No screen in sight.