A Long-Winded, Late-Night, Poorly Written Confession

As a poet, i write to make connections. I go to open-mic nights read aloud, listen take in, experience then translate the scattered thoughts to paper. In some way, i hope to convey a message or shared experience so that someone else may read and relate, or like it enough to show a friend. Yet it’s this very connection I seek that I dare not make. Making a connection involves so many things, sending a message, starting a conversation- saying “hi”, responding back, making eye contact sharing a space with someone, it involves being human. Human, a quality I’m so desperately fearful of making, of admitting, i write a lot about wanting to be more a presence than anything and in this I’ve gotten lost in the comfort of never owning up to what i really am, in the beauty of actually being human. The brilliance of empathy, the radiance in trading conversation pieces in being wholly as you are as we are. i give off a caustic atmosphere as an attempt of self-preservation when in reality to celebrate one’s own shortcomings is to claim victory. it’s not a promise but there will be poetry, there will be humanity, and love and relentlessly saying “Hi’

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Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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