What Kind of Writer Are You? My Outsider Guide to Writing Honest, Impactful Poetry That Challenges the World

To begin, I want to say I’m not here to call anybody out—I’m not interested in offending individuals. But I do want the poets I know to think about this, to really ask themselves some questions about why they’re writing and what they’re trying to say.

So, let me get to it.

Some poets live entirely on the outside. They’re the ones who write because they don’t have a choice—because something in them won’t let them stay quiet. These poets aren’t here to be liked, to go viral, or to add another publishing credit to the list. They live in the shadows, seeing the world from strange, uncomfortable angles. Their work has guts, honesty, a real need to make sense of things, even if it costs them. These are the poets who understand that if you’re not taking risks, you’re just filling space.

And then there are the crowd-pleasers—the poets who know exactly how to draw an audience in, how to polish their lines until they shine. I’ve got respect for poets who know how to connect, who make poetry accessible without sacrificing their truth. When it’s done well, it’s got its own kind of beauty. But sometimes, even the best of them fall into comfort—saying what’s safe, what’ll get applause without challenging anything.

But the ones I have no time for? The pretenders. The poets who wear the title without the commitment, who see poetry as an image, a look, a badge to wear. They know how to perform “poetic” how to look the part, but there’s no heart in it. Their words sit on the page like pretty decorations, like fog, clouding instead of cutting. Frankly, I don’t want any of it. There’s no value in poetry that doesn’t go deeper, that doesn’t ask real questions or offer real answers.

I’m done with work that skirts around what matters. I want poems that get to the fucking point. I want images that don’t just look good on a page but that serve as lightning rods to the truth. I want poetry that digs into real lives, real pain, real joy, that makes you feel something whether you like it or not. I want poems that remind us of who we are, stripped down to the bones—not dressed up in abstractions that don’t say a damn thing.

So let me ask you: What kind of writer are you? Are you in it for the honesty, or are you here for the show? Bukowski said it best: “if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed, don’t do it.” If you’re writing for applause, for fame, for something to make yourself look good, then you’re missing the point. If poetry doesn’t burn in you, if it’s not something you need to do, maybe you’re wasting your time.

Forget Playing It Safe: Real Poetry Isn’t Meant to Please Everyone

Tracy Emin once said, “If I did stuff and everyone said it was wonderful and lovely, I’d think, ooh, what have I done wrong?” And she’s right. Art that matters isn’t here to be “wonderful and lovely”. It’s here to rattle you, to challenge you, to push back against easy expectations. If your poetry only ever pleases people, if it never unsettles or confronts, ask yourself: Why?

Further, Danny Boyle said, “You have to be psychotic in your desire to do something. People always like the easy route.” And here’s the truth—most people take the easy route. They write what’s nice, what’s safe, what’ll get them likes without shaking anything up. But poetry worth reading, worth publishing, isn’t born from comfort. It’s born from pushing hard enough to get to something real. To show life as it really is, to give people a jolt that sticks with them.

So, again—what kind of artist are you? Are you here to look good, to fill the room with more pretty lines, or are you here to dig deep? Are you willing to be uncomfortable, to confront the parts of life that don’t fit neatly into a metaphor? Are you willing to write from the heart, even when it’s not what people want to hear?

Speaking Truth Without Waiting for Permission: The Artist’s Responsibility

Merritt Johnson talks about the artist’s responsibility to “speak to the way things are” and to “envision a possibility for the future with ourselves in it, as we are and as we can be”. That’s the kind of writing I want to read—poetry that dares to look honestly at the world and that doesn’t hold back. If you’re not willing to engage with reality—with its flaws, its beauty, its brutal edges—then why are you doing this?

And as Bebe Miller says, “I’m not leaving it for someone else to tell me that that’s what I should be doing… I don’t want to be perceived as having been waiting to be allowed to speak.” That’s the kind of voice I want to hear—the ones that don’t need permission, that aren’t waiting for someone to give them the green light. The ones who are writing because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t recognise themselves.

Poetry isn’t about shock for shock’s sake, and it’s not about offending people just to make a point. It’s about respecting the power of words and using them with integrity. I believe, as a writer and a person, in art that has meaning, that isn’t afraid to get its hands dirty, that doesn’t look away from the ugly parts of life. Being a poet, an artist with a conscience, means holding up a mirror to the world and to yourself without looking away from what you find. It’s not about cheap shots, and it’s not about tearing people down. If you’re writing to mock, to ridicule, to punch down, then you’re missing the point.

The poets I respect are the ones who care enough to go all the way to the truth, to make you see something you’d rather ignore. They show beauty and ugliness side by side—the whole unvarnished picture of what it means to be human. It’s the outsiders who know how to do this best, because they’re already looking from the edges, seeing the world for what it is rather than what people wish it would be. They don’t shy away from the dirt and the grit because they understand that’s where the truth lives.

I don’t care if that makes me hard to please. I don’t care if it sets me apart. Poetry should be a tool for understanding, for stripping back all the layers of bullshit and getting to what’s real. I want work that’s grounded in something more than image or style, work that questions, that challenges, that might even make you uncomfortable. Poetry shouldn’t just be a game of pretty words—it should mean something, say something, and say it without hiding behind obscurity or cleverness.

So here it is, plain and simple: I want poetry that matters, poetry that leaves a mark. Not art for art’s sake, but art for the sake of truth. If that means staying on the fringe, so be it. If that means refusing to publish work that looks nice but says nothing, I’m more than fine with that. Because if poetry doesn’t make you feel something real, if it doesn’t show you the world as it is, then what’s the point?

What kind of writer are you? Are you here to make an impact, to dig into what’s true, or are you here for the likes, the “wonderful and lovely” praise? Are you here to push, to challenge, to change something? Because if not, maybe you’re wasting your time.