I have always been a fan of the written word, perhaps because I am not so good at speaking. Or maybe perhaps it is because my mother is an English teacher and some would say, therefore, it is genetic. Regardless, I am constantly beckoned by the rhythmic drumming of the tribes of poets from past to present.

From William Blake’s childlike whimsy, to Alfred Tennyson’s introspective darkness, to Christina Rossetti’s gothic gore, to R. H. Sin’s modern emotion, I have always appreciated literature more than the average person.

However, it was not until I read a certain collection of poetry that my true obsession blossomed.

I had heard a plethora of people rave about this book. I am not usually a sheep, but I had to follow the herd in this case. I had to see for myself what all the hullabaloo was about. Hair pulled back into a tight bun, I flung the double doors of Barnes n’ Noble open and allowed the scent of freshly printed pages to tickle my nostrils.

Focus

I had a mission: Man your battle stations, ladies. This is the moment we have been training for. Locate poetry section; lock phasers on that seductively sleek, black, hardback cover; retrieve target with minimal enthusiasm so as not to arouse suspicion; grandma-power-walk to check-out counter; relinquish currency; exit battlefield. Mission complete.

Woah.

That just happened?

I guess so, because it is right here in my hands.

Rupi Kaur’s "Milk and Honey" is a collection of poetry. Perhaps the most flawlessly constructed collection of its kind I have ever had the privilege of reading. The sharp angles and smooth current that her words created in my mind were unlike anything I had ever read before. I wanted, nay, needed more. I became ravenous, like a starving buzzard circling the skies with no other goal but satisfying the fire inside of me. Just to choke the flame of my passion, my mind’s eye dove into the icy water created by Kaur’s words. I was enveloped in liquid bliss.

I picked up Kaur’s sleek, black hardcover, the texture smooth under my calloused hands, the front adorned with two simple outlines of flies. With the glowing gentleness of a new mother cradling her baby, I opened it and blazed through the pages as easily as if I were reading something I had written. The words were almost my own, becoming more and more a part of me with every page. I think that is why I fell in love with poetry. Kaur described how I felt in ways I could not. My eyes widened as they pranced across this paragraph about love. This page about loss. This sentence about loneliness.

You feel it too.

I thought I was the only one.

I mean, I knew I wasn’t alone, but I still felt lonely.

To see my emotions from someone else’s perspective makes them less overwhelming.

I have been reassured.

Of my sanity.

Or that I am not alone in my lack thereof.

I think that is the purpose of poetry: to evoke emotions from readers who cannot express those emotions themselves; to provide a sense of company, a relief from the loneliness. Kaur provided me this relief with her seductively raw rhetoric, and I want to provide that for others because I know how it feels to be sad, to be hurt, to be alone.

While this might appear as an obsession with poetry on the surface, I think it is more of an obsession with the expression: the ability to express my emotions gracefully and to read it from another when I lack that ability; to feel a connection with not only an author, but with my internal self.

When I successfully express myself, a sense of identity is unmasked. I become more in tune with who I am, which only makes my writing better. Through my search for success, I found an obsession, and by feeding that obsession, I discovered myself.