this century of poetry feels lonelier than ever
I think modern poetry has become obsessed with being understood quickly.
everything has to fit inside captions now.
inside repostable graphics.
inside bite-sized grief.
and maybe that is why so much poetry feels emotionally unfinished lately.
people are writing pain before they have fully sat with it.
there is so much performance.
so much urgency to appear wounded beautifully.
so much language that sounds poetic but never actually risks honesty.
this century created poetry that is instantly consumable,
but sometimes not deeply survivable.
and yet —
I cannot fully hate modern poetry either.
because somewhere between the aesthetic sadness,
the lowercase confessions,
the blurry photographs,
there are still people trying desperately to tell the truth.
girls writing themselves alive online.
lonely people posting paragraphs at 3AM because silence feels heavier.
children turning trauma into metaphors because nobody listened when they spoke plainly.
I think this generation writes so much about identity because the world keeps fragmenting us constantly.
algorithms tell us who to become.
beauty standards rearrange self-worth daily.
everyone is branding themselves while quietly falling apart.
and poetry has become the last place some people still sound human.
maybe that is why I write.
because poetry allows contradiction.
it allows me to be soft and angry.
healing and grieving.
hopeful and devastated simultaneously.
I write because some experiences become unbearable once trapped silently inside the body.
I write because bullying taught me hyper-awareness.
because discrimination taught me what exclusion feels like physically.
because girlhood taught me how carefully women carry pain.
because loneliness sharpened observation.
because survival made me pay attention.
sometimes I think poetry saved me from becoming emotionally numb.
not because writing heals everything —
it doesn’t.
but because language gave suffering somewhere to go.
