I never thought I could be a writer; I wasn’t talented with rhymes and I never knew what to write about. I felt envious of my best friend who could write about anything. I found the poetry within me when I became more in touch with who I am. However, being in touch with yourself doesn’t mean that you’ve found yourself. I found myself at the end of my whim, I’d given up again just as I’d given up many times before. I didn’t know that this time was different, but as I stared at a wall deep in thought, strings of feelings passed through my mind. I felt poetic.
I began taking trips to Barnes & Noble, where I’d sit for hours reading stacks of poetry books. Rupi Kaur didn’t rhyme, and neither did Lang Leav. Michael Faudet, Beau Taplin, Madisen Kuhn. So maybe I was poetic. I didn’t need to rhyme about how beautiful the flowers were, or how much I enjoyed the beach. Poetry, for most, comes from a place of darkness and pain. Words would flood my mind and my heart clung to them. I was learning to make sense of the depression that snuck up on me when everything seemed to be going well. It was an expression of my panic attacks; the ones I forced myself to gulp down when I had to act like a calm adult in class.
While I felt alone or abnormal, I realized the similarity between my poems and the ones I’d read in the aisles of Barnes & Noble. They may have not been publishable, but they meant something to me. I began to publish my poems on Instagram and gained a decent following. It was then that my pen name was created: Poetry by Cleo. To most, my identity is a secret. Now, I think my poems are something to be proud of. My favorite book is Lang Leav’s, Memories. In it is my favorite poem, “Poetry,” which has one simple line that speaks to me:
“The world has given you poetry and now you must give it back.”
That I will Lang, that I will.