I like to write poems when I’m pissed. Not drunk—far from it. More like irked or annoyed. I’m a glass half full kind of gal, but there are days, and we all have them, when the stars don’t align. Someone cuts you off in traffic, the internet goes down in the middle of your Zoom presentation, or your partner does the laundry and shrinks your favourite cashmere sweater.

Writing poems when pissed captures moments of heat and spills them on the page in a rush of emotions. Far less harmful and more productive than retaliation. The end result is a record, a document to return to and reflect upon, once the heat dissipates. Consider it a form of therapy. Cathartic and fruitful at the same time.

A couple of years ago, I worked in a job that was the antithesis of my creative nature. I was an artist turned executive assistant who toiled away in a glass tower for three high-powered executives. The pay was much higher than my previous job in the arts, so I convinced myself it was worth it. But the more spreadsheets I made or Word docs I formatted, the more I felt like I was losing my creative abilities, along with my soul.

When I expressed my concerns to a fellow writer, she suggested I join her online poetry salon. The structure was simple; you met via Zoom one night a week, and after a prompt, you wrote for 45 minutes and shared your work with the group. I was nervous and intimidated. A few of the participants were published poets. I was not. My friend encouraged me, “It’s a safe space, Jennifer, no topic is off limits, and there’s no judgement.”

The day of the salon arrived, and I was about to leave the office when one of the executives dumped a pile of crumpled restaurant receipts on my desk.

“Found a few more of these for my expense report,” he said, “I want it on my desk tomorrow morning,” and left for his golf game. There was no way I was going to miss the salon. Fuming silently, I doubled down on my focus and entered numbers into little boxes. A sum which was three times my annual income.

Racing home, a battle played out in my mind.

Negative me: What the heck are you doing with your life? What about your art, your writing? You are nothing to the executives. All you deal with is data; you’re just a drone.

Positive me: You’re saving money for the first time in your life. You’re finally independent and self-sufficient. You’re not nothing. You’re an artist and a writer, so you ARE something.

The salon commenced and I channelled my frustration about my day job onto the page. Words flowed from my pen as I exiled negative thoughts and transformed them into prose. When it was my turn to read to the group, I hesitated. Was my poem too “on the nose”? Should it be more obscure? What if no one gets it? But instead of awkward silence, I heard lots of giggles, gasps, and an emphatic “hell ya!!” My friend smiled at me through the screen.

Writing poems when pissed refills my glass when it gets a little empty. Instead of complaining or ruminating, I get out my journal or my iPhone and jot down how I’m feeling in the moment. The poems I’ve collected when I’ve been in a fiery mood are some of my favorites. They’re like time capsules of emotional states that no longer have a hold on me because I’ve decided to let them go—just like that day job. Writing poems when pissed, frees me from my mental prison and the words become beats and beats become poems.

Nothing is Full of Something 

Nothing is full of something.
I hold tight to this idea
and try not to let it go,
even when my mind
says no.

Stumbling home today
fatigued by numbers
and left-brained men,
I felt like nothing
nothing to them.

Nothing is like no-thing
like nowhere is now-here.
It’s simply how the glass looks,
is it full or empty here?

None of us is nothing,
I contemplate this thought.
Even when formatting
Word docs all day
has me a bit distraught.

Damn my monotonous day job
it’s rife with melody,
a reminder to remind myself
of life’s divine comedy.

I’m an artist in a cube
working eight hours in Excel.
Which for some power with numbers
and for me a numerical hell.

Turn the battlefield into a playground
turn the silence into song,
just because it doesn’t feel right
doesn’t make it wrong.

Keep it light, keep it playful,
don’t let them see me sweat,
nothing is full of something
lest I forget.