2 Apr

The more I write, the more comfortable I am sharing my writing with others. Being a journalist-in-training and a blogger, it comes with the territory. Still, before people read my work, I am always nervous that my writing doesn’t resonate with readers. What if I’m an inherently bad writer and no one has the heart to tell me?

Writing non-fictional prose like articles or blog posts, I don’t think too hard about how much people appreciate my writing. That isn’t to say I don’t care if people do because of course I do, there just isn’t a use of fixating myself on being well-liked.

When I (attempt) to write fiction or writing that’s more stylized, I become a lot more protective of what I have created. Writing poetry I find is so deeply personal, that if someone dislikes the way I wrote a verse, it would feel as if they disliked a part of my emotions. That sounds odd and unnecessarily deep, but if I were to write a poem, it would be about personal experience or the piece would not be genuine.

I was recently published in Laurier’s literary journal for a poem I wrote called Uprooted. The theme of the magazine was “roots” which could mean anything from identity to grassroots organization. My poem dealt with my family history and the lack of generational roots connected to one specific place.

The experience of being published for poetry was uprooting in itself because it took me waaay out of my comfort zone and forced me to share with hundreds of people information (albeit abstract) that I would not normally provide to people I hardly (or do not) know. But in a way, it’s liberating. Once the ball is rolling, I’ll be more willing to expand my writing horizon.

Fountain, Marcelle Duchamp

Here is the poem I wrote. You may not think it’s great, but someone saw Marcelle Duchamp’s Fountain and considered it art, so maybe someone will do the same with Uprooted.

I cannot deny our history,
The absence of a homeland,
They’ll kill us if we pray.
We are not welcome.

Fleeing west for a better life,
Generations ago,
Escaping the ghetto.
We are wanderers.

This is no place to raise a family,
High walls secure us,
They’ll kill us for our car.
We have no future here either.

A new country, a new beginning,
The freedom to speak,
The safety to walk alone.
We are at peace.

2 Responses to “Uprooted”

  1. kseverny at 8:59 am #

    thats an excellent poem.
    i like the drawing at the top too

    • romeh at 6:23 pm #


      Unfortunately, I didn’t draw that, but I really enjoy it as well.

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