My first poem

(In)glorious Poetry. What would Poe do? He’d say you’re as good as your last written phrase!

My palms were sweaty, throat was swelling and all of a sudden my mind despite of vainglorious confidence became mightily petty. Solemn uncertainty and self-inflicted suspicion of my ability to start and finish what I set out to do paralyzed me. This was to be my first and last first time. Will it be cherished as a fond memory or an experience to be shut out from the world and existence?

Creative Destruction

Are we talking about our first kiss, first job-interview or first time experience with two souls physically connecting? In all earnest one could say all the above. But I am talking about the ultimate form of creation; poetry. A language written in as many languages as there are living souls roaming on this mundane life called reality. Simultaneously ardeous and beautiful process of destroying and piecing together one’s thoughts and emotions, or lack of thereof.

Inspired by Inspiration

What drew me to the inexplicable world of poetry? The very same urge, which pulls two souls into one. For some time I yearned to surrender my poetical virginity, but failed to leave the port where my soul, heart and mind learned complacency and satisfactory comfort. I suppose my mind was not inspired enough to raise the anchor and set the sails to nowhere and everywhere. But like an itch that never quite leaves you alone, I seeked to understand inspiration itself.

Creating Inglorious Inspiration

And that’s when it hit me. One is not supposed to seek inspiration, but merely embrace it in anyway it might approach you. There is no Golden Rule for poetical inspiration! If there ever was, it would be called commercialized story-manufacturing, also known as “Hollywood”. That’s why my first poem was to be an outreach to what inspiration inspires us to do.

After pouring my soul to a piece of paper and laying my pencil down, I embraced the silent guilt of satisfaction: the sense of inspired creation. I felt like the floodgates were flung open and I had finally left my anchored ship in the safe harbor.

I didn’t need a vessel. I am the vessel.

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