I have probably revised this introduction about six or seven times since I joined WordPress five years ago. Back then, poetry was a consolation prize as I toyed with the idea of being a writer between sleepily feeding my infant daughter bottles of formula.
I have always written poetry. Initially, it was because I wanted to write and play music, but I never had the ear or timing for instruments (not for lack of trying).
At first, its only purpose was purging myself of childhood trauma and a man whose only paternal display was a fulfilment of legal requirements. Then it became a channel for failed relationships, platonic or otherwise. As I grew older, it became my form of political dissent, outlet for economic woe, and eventually, a narrative of the times in which we find ourselves.
In a sense, it is both my life story and my last will and testament, the only part of me that will survive time and the elements. It is the part that will speak to my child after shuffling off this mortal coil.
In terms of poets, I’m still among its students, for I’ve been humbled by some wonderful writers. But neither am I conventional, far as dead poets go. And I never want to be. I want to be the black sheep I’ve always been, a thorn in the side eschewing comfort for the beauty in dangerous things.
It’s a dangerous world, after all.