Some time ago, I thought of putting together a book of my poetry—and immediately discarded the idea.  My poems were all too childish, too personal, or too convoluted to be made sense of.

Yet the thought kept coming back.

At last I decided to at least read through some of my older work and determine if it was all as bad as I remembered.  The first few were cringe-inducing, but I kept on and soon found myself nodding along to some sage advice, grinning at victories won, and sitting in silent contemplation long after I'd finished.

I realized, then, that "childish" was the wrong word to describe them.  They were raw.  They were as close as I could get to pouring my mind, myself onto the page.  They were undiluted and unapologetic.  Maybe the wording wasn't the best, but that added to them, to their meaning, their significance, not detracted.  That brought them closer to who I was, and that was what made them so difficult to share.

Every writer—every artist—has but one true subject: themselves.  Poetry is merely an art where that fact is less well-concealed.

These poems were meant to be shared.

Even the most personal ones.

Especially the most personal ones.

They contain my knowledge, as I came upon it, of myself, of others, and of the world.  They are full of my struggles and my insights, my frustrations and my joy, my imperfections and my humanity.  They take time just to be, just to enjoy something beautiful, and they give the beauty meaning.  They were meant to be shared.  They were meant to give advice and offer insights and provide companionship and be enjoyed.  They are me, they are human, they are young and evolving, they are observing and reacting, they are the wisdom of my youth.

-Akira

21 April 2018