Of Poets

I remember the first time I tried a hand at poetry, it was a total disaster. I was only sixteen and yet, I felt the world's weight crushing on my shoulders... just because of a one-page poetry assignment I have to write for an English class. I never really liked poetry back then.

" Who am I? "

I stared at the topic so hard, trying to make the words vanish from the pages of my scratch paper. A simple question with a complicated answer, haunting my waking hours. To think of words that rhyme was already a huge task at hand and if that wasn't enough torture, I even have to come up with a concrete definition of my undefined self. Good Lord! My mind was screaming in sweet blasphemy.

A minute had passed into an hour...and it was almost eleven at night. I have to write something!

Nothing. I couldn't muster enough will to even scribble down the first word on the musky page of my yellow notebook. I couldn't even think of a unique title that will earn me a straight A. I was staring mindlessly at the floor, the window, the ceiling, the wall...and yes, even at the stray cat walking stealthily on my neighbor's lawn. It felt like my nose would soon bleed from the sheer exhaustion of forcing a word to pop out of thin air. I was a hopeless case.

My grandma used to tell me that all good things come to those who wait. So, I waited. I was hoping that a proverbial spark of divine inspiration would give me that one word that shall make me write like a frenzied Shakespeare creating a masterpiece. I was, definitely, wrong. It was worst than counting a hundred sheep before I sleep. I was waiting for something to count, instead.

Time was running out and I have to write something soon, or else, sleep would take its iron grip on me. It must have been a full moon and a veil of emptiness shrouded my mind like some evil spell... until a cold breeze brushed my face. I have left my windows open. It didn't matter though. The heavens took pity on my unpoetical soul. I then started to write:

" I am the breeze in the midsummer"

I couldn't believe my eyes. I was really writing! First problem solved. Now, the part of who really am I was a bit hard so I write my next line:

" a question without an answer, "

Better be honest about it. I couldn't really make an award-winning answer about myself. It sounded deep enough and the next words came, as I caught a reflection of myself:

" the mirror that reflects a shadow "

I must admit, it was a little bit dark inside my bedroom. I had three lines and still going. How must I end it to a verse? The answer was simple. I then wrote:

" the beginning until the end. "

The writing frenzy had took me into the poet inside myself. I wrote more. It was like a natural high and I couldn't find a way of stopping my possessed hand. I was panting, covered in beads of sweat as I let my soul pour out into the ink of my pen. It was so surreal. What started as a word, turned into more words, and finally, an opus of my own.

I couldn't believe my eyes as I try to squint and see if everything was just a dream. I have finally made my own poem. Since I couldn't even answer the question of who I really am, I just have to be downright sincere: I don't know and so I made this title:

" Untitled Self "

I didn't get an A on this poem, but my professor had loved the spunk of my work. I didn't care. It was just a huge relief for me to have the matter off my hands... until a day of despair had seized me and I had to take solace in the comforts of poetry. I wanted to scream all my pains at the world and it was through poem that I have found my release.

I am a poet. You are a poet. We are all poets making our unique poems in the poetry of life. You may not be aware of it, but it's never too late to try. Finding inspiration may be tough for a first try and it can be anything, even beauty can be found in a pimple. I must warn you though...poetry can be so addictive. I admit. Writing poems is one guilty pleasure I can't resist. It is the only place where I am free as the free verse I love to cast.