As with anything concerning social media and the proliferation of an internet-centric culture, Insta-poetry is treated with the usual package deal approach of hate and love. Despite the abundant successes and enthusiastic fanbases of poets such as Rupi Kaur, Lang Leav, Amanda Lovelace and Yrsa Daley-Ward, a creeping sense of disapproval veins through it all.
I have never been one to call myself a “writer” nor did I consider writing a talent until I realized the people around me felt the same towards me and other aspiring “writers.” It felt as if our writing was not considered anything special because our names were not considered anything special. We were not
This poem was written when I had difficulty describing someone I admire. Anything I wrote, it wasn’t good enough. I realized no words are good enough. There’s an X amount of words to describe how wonderful the person I admire truly is. The pages of my journals are suffocated with every detail of your loveliness
I’ve always been a reader, inhaling books faster than I could get my hands on them, and they have always shaped me in some way. Similarly to Rory Gilmore, I too carried a book everywhere, and I never cared much about whether it seemed rude to pull a book out at the dinner table. Growing
Maybe I have no room to talk, given the only book I’ve published is poetry based on life experiences, but when it comes to my fiction, it’s impossible to escape the prodding question of “is ____ based off of ____?” The short answer is most likely, no. The long answer absolutely not. There are authors who