Am I allowed to write poetry?

I ask this a lot to myself. I think I always dabbled in poetry but was genuinely unaware of it. Then, someone I love passed away. I wrote in poetry when journalling wouldn’t suffice. I realised what I was doing then but I didn’t take it seriously. Perfectionism stopped me, like one has to be Keats or Rilke to dare putting pen to paper. And who were they, before they were Keats and Rilke?

Then came this summer. I was again processing something that felt monumental and poetry just poured out. I’d write on trains, on my desk when I needed to study, I’d even get up from my bed in the middle of the night to not forget a line. I kept writing. I wrote in all the languages I know which made me question how I reserve some feelings, thoughts and ideas for one language and not the other, and why I do that; how one’s personality changes depending on the language of expression, as personal experience, history and culture are loaded into words.

I sent the poems to a few friends who I thought might enjoy them. I changed my mind about many things, one thing I learnt is not to take myself too seriously. OK, I write some poor poetry. I write it because it needs to get out. Of myself, off of my mind…

So, I allow myself, against myself. And here is one: