I want to be less embarrassed about hoping to legitimately call myself a poet. I struggle to administer that title to myself without some authority figure in uniform saying to me, “Heidi, I dub thee a poetess”, to which I imagine I would respond by doing the Can Can and finish with an Olympic gymnast “I just stuck that landing” pose.

In reality, I AM a poet. No one has to tell me. I have been distilling my feelings and then translating them into figurative language since I was literally old enough to spell. I love making beautiful images out of language, sculpting a story with words, making a metaphor out of an amalgam of experiences.

I am an animal and I am trying to make sense out of being alive. I should probably stop because it usually just hurts my brain, but I keep coming back to it, peering at my existence and trying to connect the dots. I want life to be a math problem so I can crunch the numbers and be done with it already. Jesus Heidi! Just let go and relax!!!! Go with the flow and absorb the experience!! Hmmm. Okay, but just for a minute to see how it goes.

What you can expect to find here is poetic language in journal style entries by a Tim Burton princess with a Jane Austen soul and possibly some profanity. I am trying to figure my shit out people. Sometimes I have to say FUCK. It’s just a part of the process so keep your clothes on. Or don’t – and start a naked revolution. I might join. Especially if we could get a goddamn official to declare me the poet laureate of the movement.  And maybe give me a crown. And a fancy sash. A vintage sash though, and an antique crown. And I AM going to do the Can Can so prepare yourself for a crotch shot.


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