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cameliawithbooks's review against another edition
emotional
informative
reflective
medium-paced
3.75
njdarkish's review against another edition
2.0
Not really my kind of poetry. It's popcorn-y and devoid of subtlety and is full of direct affirmations of broad strokes ideas like the reader having value and being loved and stuff like that. It definitely has an audience that will benefit from it, it's just not what I look for when I'm reading poetry.
I will give props on the poem that was shaped like a hand. Very solid execution in shaping the poem like that while still maintaining a pretty high level of easy readability.
I will give props on the poem that was shaped like a hand. Very solid execution in shaping the poem like that while still maintaining a pretty high level of easy readability.
venusaspirant's review against another edition
5.0
Rating poetry feels arbitrary.
Indeed, even after giving this five stars, I feel like that's not quite what I meant. Reviewing poetry also feels equally as such, but this moved me in a way I felt compelled to share.
Poetry is a very individual experience-- Every single person has a unique experience to the way it is written. No two interpretations of any one poem are the same. When a poet writes a poem, they are, in essence, writing to themselves. Poems are personal. There is a piece of the author within every word. Poetry tells many a story, and it tells them through a unique medium of thought, emotion, and word choice.
Sometimes those stories are happy. Sometimes angry. Sometimes sad. And sometimes, those poems are stories we wish we didn't have to tell.
When I opened my laptop to write this review, I didn't have one definitive thing to say. There is no single way to read and interpret poetry, just like there's not one way to review it. So as I type, I figured the best way to review it was to talk about how it made me feel.
When I finished the final page of this book, when I closed the cover and leaned back in my bed, I cried. No pretty tears, delicate and waifish like Hollywood seems so convinced people cry in real life. I cried honest tears. Ugly tears. In my tears, I shed every emotion that's been roiling in my chest for a long time. Grief. Bitterness. Hope. Relief. And to someone who doesn't "get" it (if there's even anything that can truly be got from poetry), they might ask me, "Why?" I can tell you why: I felt seen.
Actually, "seen" is putting it mildly. It felt like someone pulled back the shower curtain while I was in it. I felt exposed. And I felt vulnerable.
I have struggled my whole life. From abuse from my peers, to emotional neglect, to mental health issues, to trauma inflicted on my person. I am someone who's been keeping themself together with a frayed rope, praying every day that it'll hold out a little longer. And I bury it. I bury it deep. I live in what you could call a self-imposed silence. When the world hurts me, when I am wounded, I say nothing at all. So I compartmentalize. I put it away. I deal when I am ready to deal. Sometimes, that day comes. Most of the time it doesn't.
What I read in the confines of this collection of poems felt like someone wrenching out my grief and putting it on a page for everyone to see. For the first time, I didn't have to talk about how I felt, because someone took my words and wrote them for me. And sure, it's not exactly the same. It isn't verbatim. It isn't a carbon copy of my soul, transposed through the ether into a poetry collection. But it was a connection. It was someone else, feeling many of the same things I do, thinking the same thoughts I do, and putting it down with a very clear message: That all of it was okay.
Poetry means different things to different people. Hell, it can even mean literally nothing at all to you. That's the beauty of what it is as a medium. It can be that connection, that feeling of "Someone else finally understands. Thank the stars. Thank the stars. I'm not alone."
I've said all I wanted to say, so I'll close out with one of my favourite passages from the collection:
Indeed, even after giving this five stars, I feel like that's not quite what I meant. Reviewing poetry also feels equally as such, but this moved me in a way I felt compelled to share.
Poetry is a very individual experience-- Every single person has a unique experience to the way it is written. No two interpretations of any one poem are the same. When a poet writes a poem, they are, in essence, writing to themselves. Poems are personal. There is a piece of the author within every word. Poetry tells many a story, and it tells them through a unique medium of thought, emotion, and word choice.
Sometimes those stories are happy. Sometimes angry. Sometimes sad. And sometimes, those poems are stories we wish we didn't have to tell.
When I opened my laptop to write this review, I didn't have one definitive thing to say. There is no single way to read and interpret poetry, just like there's not one way to review it. So as I type, I figured the best way to review it was to talk about how it made me feel.
When I finished the final page of this book, when I closed the cover and leaned back in my bed, I cried. No pretty tears, delicate and waifish like Hollywood seems so convinced people cry in real life. I cried honest tears. Ugly tears. In my tears, I shed every emotion that's been roiling in my chest for a long time. Grief. Bitterness. Hope. Relief. And to someone who doesn't "get" it (if there's even anything that can truly be got from poetry), they might ask me, "Why?" I can tell you why: I felt seen.
Actually, "seen" is putting it mildly. It felt like someone pulled back the shower curtain while I was in it. I felt exposed. And I felt vulnerable.
I have struggled my whole life. From abuse from my peers, to emotional neglect, to mental health issues, to trauma inflicted on my person. I am someone who's been keeping themself together with a frayed rope, praying every day that it'll hold out a little longer. And I bury it. I bury it deep. I live in what you could call a self-imposed silence. When the world hurts me, when I am wounded, I say nothing at all. So I compartmentalize. I put it away. I deal when I am ready to deal. Sometimes, that day comes. Most of the time it doesn't.
What I read in the confines of this collection of poems felt like someone wrenching out my grief and putting it on a page for everyone to see. For the first time, I didn't have to talk about how I felt, because someone took my words and wrote them for me. And sure, it's not exactly the same. It isn't verbatim. It isn't a carbon copy of my soul, transposed through the ether into a poetry collection. But it was a connection. It was someone else, feeling many of the same things I do, thinking the same thoughts I do, and putting it down with a very clear message: That all of it was okay.
Poetry means different things to different people. Hell, it can even mean literally nothing at all to you. That's the beauty of what it is as a medium. It can be that connection, that feeling of "Someone else finally understands. Thank the stars. Thank the stars. I'm not alone."
I've said all I wanted to say, so I'll close out with one of my favourite passages from the collection:
You are not a moment. Moments are just moments. You are so much more.
danielizabeth2608's review against another edition
5.0
My first book I've read that's been poems and this book gave me exactly what I needed right now! Peace and contentment:)
lululem's review against another edition
4.0
this felt like therapy. i felt seen. i felt like i wasn’t alone.
live react:
”I feel like I’m the only one who feels the things I feel, or thinks the way I think.
I’m worried that I’m taking everything too seriously, or not seriously enough.
Sometimes I want you to see me, and sometimes I want to disappear.”
”I know that you get ink on your fingers and don’t know when it’ll come off.
I know strangers can stain your heart in the same way.”
”Forgive yourself for being you— you have done nothing wrong and tomorrow is another chance.”
”Why do we hurt ourselves more, when other people hurt us?
Why do we beat ourselves up, for feeling beat up?
It’s easy to get stuck in a kind of loop of pain.
You’re hurt, so you hurt yourself some more.
But the correct response to pain, is self-love.”
live react:
”I feel like I’m the only one who feels the things I feel, or thinks the way I think.
I’m worried that I’m taking everything too seriously, or not seriously enough.
Sometimes I want you to see me, and sometimes I want to disappear.”
”I know that you get ink on your fingers and don’t know when it’ll come off.
I know strangers can stain your heart in the same way.”
”Forgive yourself for being you— you have done nothing wrong and tomorrow is another chance.”
”Why do we hurt ourselves more, when other people hurt us?
Why do we beat ourselves up, for feeling beat up?
It’s easy to get stuck in a kind of loop of pain.
You’re hurt, so you hurt yourself some more.
But the correct response to pain, is self-love.”
allieypop's review against another edition
5.0
This book has been my most recommended book for the last year and was always paired with the strong suggestion that it's read cover to cover and to flag every page that resonates with you while reading. The skillful use of short phrases and empathetic tone leave the pages open to a variety of interpretations.
Easily the first book that comes to mind when asked my favorite book.
Easily the first book that comes to mind when asked my favorite book.
manderzreadz's review against another edition
3.0
Ian Thomas writes beautiful poetry and there is something anyone can relate to no matter what headspace you are in when picking up the book.