Poetry? A nice word that unleashes so much in just a few syllables and sounds. To many, it’s a poignant form of art, not so understandable, not so absorbing. I used to believe this. I treated poetry as something that I had to study, that was part of an obligatory curriculum. What changed everything was what I call “the combustion”.
It’s that purifying moment when you just need to attach to something, just to experience the bond, the sense of contentment. I started shyly, evoking only bits and pieces from randomly generated authors like Nikita Gill, Atticus, Tyler Kent White and even the renowned Shakespeare.
I surpassed that moment by simply reading, reformulating verses in my mind so they were alleviating. Then, all this reading became monochrome, dreary. It was good, but not excellent and my mind immediately started to spot dissimilarities. I could identify with a certain poem, but only to a precise extent. Maybe I needed a fresh gulp of air. Maybe I should do something on my own, regardless of the fact that the audience is nonexistent. The only public was composed of my soul and the sins, ideologies, dreams buried deep inside.
It doesn’t have a rhyme? Instead, it has meaning. It isn’t properly measured? It’s a modern type of poetry. It doesn’t have the peremptory motifs? It has my own literary qualities. Break those barriers. Stipulated this code that infringe us. Poetry is feeling, is the singular product of our imagination, a piece of flesh and bone transferred on paper.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. To those out there looking for an escapade, absolute relief, take a sheet of paper, a sharpened pen and start. No one’s watching, no one’s dictating from afar. It’s just you and your inner self, screaming -silently- along the cramped lines.
For me, poetry comes as a small desire, to portray life as genuinely as possible. Nothing too exquisite and labyrinthine, just a bit of how everything happened.
Time, so cruel and so quickly passing
I can see myself older, backwards evolving
Flying towards greatness, with only one wing.
It’s until I see you, tears in your eyes, cling.
It shouldn’t be such seclusion, so much dull pain
We have a life ahead of us, nothing is being vain.
Our love, that conquered all, could be our savior
I am not going to sit, leaving everything in blur.
The darkest night sees you in slumber, me awake
And I have this will towards forever, this ache
It’s more like an impulse, something I’ve envisioned
To put us on a pedestal, without any worry, burdened.
The next day, you are still grey, silently mourning
I am more decisive, stepping on shallow string.
You wouldn’t talk, more vehemently hiding in work
And I have this ardent thought, dream, perk.
It’s again at night when your beauty strikes, shines
The pursue of your lips, the strands, the little whines
The rhythm of your steps, the palette of your skin
It’s everything, all I’ve ever wanted, sending me with a spin.