I love poetry
I love writing poetry
I love writing poetry on a clean blank page the same way the sun loves illuminating autumn kissed leaves, so that lovers walking underneath those trees might feel that biomimicry is happening in reverse; that nature is simulating the colour of their happiness in order to survive.
I love sharing poetry
I love how alive I feel when I look up from the page housing my thoughts and feel the tautness of breathe in an audience with whom my words are resonating; that feeling is emancipating beyond measure and I dare not liken it to any other sensation for the knowledge that it will fall immeasurably short…of anything really.
I love the moment a poem is born
When I can feel it forming, clearly without any hindrance or needing to be coerced; when it falls from heart to pen to page like an actor taking up position on a stage in a play that has been rehearsed to perfection…
But that doesn’t happen very often. In fact, it is incredibly rare and increasingly so when…
The validation of the poem’s worth from the audience becomes a ragged-toothed snare
When I have laid everything bare and they have LOVED it, and just seconds after the applause has begun I begin wondering…How on earth am I going to top that?
How quickly my love for poetry becomes an obsession to please.
And I find myself in a space where I am unable to write a single verse because my creativity has become shackled by fear of failure; The ease with which previous poems have come is gone, lost in a whirlwind of wondering at my self-worth and second-guessing becomes second-nature, my mind thick with the possibility of ridicule like tar to my words feathers until my ego-centric obsession has my love for poetry in tethers.
And I am left staring in helpless mute frustration
At a clean blank page.