I have been going through some of my old poems lately, and it hasn’t been the best experience, emotionally speaking.
I’ve been writing poems actively since the age of 15, so going through these documents is much like stepping into a time machine. I remember vividly everything I felt while writing each one, and most of the time, they reminded me of things I’ve done with my life that… should have been done differently.
I royally screwed up my first marriage. After we split up, I wrote a series of poems that aren’t suitable for public consumption, either due to its content or just the hateful, incomprehensible babbling I seem to do. It was such a dark time in my life. Now I realize, looking back on them, I really hated myself. One of the stupidest things about this is that I was the one who screwed up, and then I was the one who felt sorry for myself afterwards (thus the current self-loathing).
I called myself the worst names and I could tell, this pure hatred I had for myself is still inside me. It shows itself in small ways now and again.
I am not sure what to do with these feelings as they consume me so greatly. To be perfectly honest, I feel hated, unworthy, and hopeless.
I’ll be honest again: During the entire time I’ve been writing poems (teenage years to present), I often wondered if the majority of tough times that I’d gone through was just for the express purpose of writing a poem. As if I wasn’t worthy to be happy, because happiness didn’t inspire me.
It’s true that I’m my own worst enemy. I don’t know how to be better. Maybe because I don’t think I’m worthy enough for happiness.