Discovery

Earlier this week, I happened to find some poems I wrote last year that I had completely forgotten about in an old notebook (I've had two more since). One was funny, one was sad and another used psychological terms that I utilised for the A-Level exam.

The funny one was a Sonnet based on the number thirteen. I don't remember why. It was written in the tiniest scribbled handwriting I've ever seen from myself, and every other line was heavily crossed out. It was so difficult to read but quite worth the effort, if only for my nostalgia. For your pleasure, I shall type it out for you:

Unlucky number thirteen,

It's always a bad sign;

Avoided - you know what I mean,

No-one cares to give it time;

Up there with black cats,

And stepping on cracks,

Spilling salt on mats,

Giving a mirror a snap;

Unlucky number thirteen,

Gives people a good scare;

And is additionally keen,

To make you worse for wear.

But thirteen is a number I will never hate

It is after all, my birth date.

The sad one was a homework assignment from a Creative Writing course I did one weekend. The poem had to be a narrative, based on laughter. I know, how can I put a sad spin on laughter? Well, it was more the feelings behind the poem that made it sad for me. That day when I went home, I discovered a friend of mine had passed away and I dedicated the poem to him. I almost cried reading it out to the class of strangers, but I was proud of myself for writing it.

The third, psychological poem was what really got to me though. It was all full of indignation about a friend who had wronged me and I described quite emphatically how angry that made me feel - now I see it for the angsty teenage girl poem it really is.

Thanks, past self for making me realise that although I may be improving, I still have a long way to go before I'm the next Shakespeare. A long way to go.

Also, I should write poems more often. And maybe hide them away with the sole intention of discovering them a few years later. Like a poetry time capsule.