I didn’t expect a TV show to feel like my poems. But then I watched TOO MUCH. And something clicked. This loud, chaotic, deeply flawed series about two hurting people who can’t stop colliding. It mirrored so much of what’s been living quietly inside my writing these past 69 days. The rawness. The contradictions. The way joy and grief live side by side, and sometimes hold hands.
The Parallels
TOO MUCH is messy. But so is heartbreak. So is healing. Just like some of the poems I’ve written – the ones where anger bleeds into softness. Where heartbreak shouts, but healing whispers.
“I laid her down beneath the willow tree,
the girl who didn’t flinch at thunder,
who once was free,
and danced in storms.”
—from MOURNING
Jessica is messy. Raw. Unapologetic. She reminded me of the women in my poems. Those trying. Breaking. Starting over. Those who tell you too much and regret it instantly. Who dance in public, cry in the grocery store, and still crack a joke that makes no sense but makes someone laugh. Just like the woman in LOVE SICK, where tenderness meets undoing:
I unlearned his heartbeat with every breath.
I turned missing into music.
Still aching,
but I don’t bleed anymore.
My roots have teeth now.
Softness as Resistance
There’s a moment in TOO MUCH where the pain is so loud, all you can do is go quiet. That’s what writing softness feels like sometimes. Taking a stand. Speaking up. Whispering truth in a world that only shouts.
I felt that in poems like HOPE:
You buy souvenirs of suffering,
tragedy turned trinket,
sold with a smile.
You desecrate what’s sacred,
with your bankrupt heart,
and blind allegiance to lies.
But hope is not for sale.
No matter how many of your borders bleed, we still build bridges.
Children may play in rubble, but they will rewrite joy from ash.
The earth is tired, but we will still plant trees,
digging their seeds deep into the scorched dirt with our hands.
Floods may rise.
But so do we.
Felix’s Kindness Hurts
The way he looks at her. The way he forgives. The way he cries watching Paddington. It reminded me of the men in my poems too.
The ones who are quiet, and kind, and tired of pretending they’re something they’re not.
He walks alone, not because he’s better,
but because he’s tired of pretending he’s not broken.
—from SIGMA
Poetry and Pop Culture
Sometimes it takes a chaotic, over-the-top show to show you what you’ve been trying to say all along:
That vulnerability is a strength.
That not fitting in is a kind of freedom.
That being too much might just mean being exactly what the world needs more of.
And maybe TOO MUCH wasn’t just a show I watched. Maybe it’s a feeling I’ve been writing about all along.
Disclaimer: Header image created using AI-generated illustration tools.
